Assignment - Lament
by burnseleanor21
Summary: The abduction of a journalist by ruthless extra-dimensional forces leads Sapphire and Steel back onto familiar territory. Meanwhile, deep within the Labyrinth, the Cenobite High Priest has a disturbing encounter of his own with an old wartime comrade, leading to a bizarre alliance. Can the operators find a way to successfully infiltrate Leviathan's domain and save reality?
1. Chapter 1 - Strange Meetings

**CHAPTER 1 - STRANGE MEETINGS**

 _It seemed that out of battle I escaped_

 _Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped_

 _Through granites which titanic wars had groined._

 _Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,_

 _Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred._

 _Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared_

 _With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,_

 _Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless._

 _And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,_

 _By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell._

Wilfred Owen, "Strange Meeting" (ll. 1-10), 1918.

* * *

 _A new test … It must be that,_ the High Priest assured himself, as he traced the sound through the gaunt, echoing stone corridors of the Labyrinth. _A new ordeal, devised by our Lord and Master. It is not mine to reason why. Only to suffer accordingly, and to find the pleasure in that suffering._

So far, however, he was having little luck in finding any. The sound – a shrill, repetitive, tuneful whistling; sometimes jaunty, sometimes mournful, and at all times maddeningly evocative, although for no reason he could put his finger on – seemed to taunt him with moments of close proximity, yet at every new turning it seemed to have leaped ahead of him, drawing him further along the narrow, deserted passages and into areas of the Labyrinth which even he was less than familiar with, far from the oft-frequented cloisters, seminaries, and torture chambers that now seemed curiously homely. _Far from my Gash, as well. If I should require backup … but why should I?_ he reproached himself, picking up his pace and forcing a new confidence into his tread. _I am vice-lord here, am I not? The favoured one of Leviathan. I have nothing to fear. Leviathan would not betray me … again,_ he mentally added, recalling that one time his god had, alas, attempted to supplant him with a new High Priest, had destroyed his physical form, and had sundered his spirit in two. _I was merely lucky, in the aftermath. Had Channard not proven to be such a reckless failure as my replacement … but I failed Leviathan first, lest I forget,_ he reminded himself, feeling chastened. _I allowed one to escape whom my Lord had set his sights upon. Kirsty … My Lord was merciful to forgive such dereliction of duty, and to allow me to resume my rank. Why I even committed it … I wanted her here as much as Leviathan himself, it not more. Yet she affected me, somehow,_ he reflected, straining to recall the details of the incident. _She weakened my resolve. She showed me something. A picture … Yes. The man in uniform. The captain … who was … who was …_ and suddenly, and with a rising sense of unease, he realised why the melancholy whistling he had been chasing was so evocative, as he remembered the words it was set to: ' _Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag … and smile, smile, smile. While there's a Lucifer to light your–'_

"Got a light, Captain Spencer?" said a voice behind him, in a West Country accent, as the whistling abruptly stopped. The High Priest swivelled on his heel, dismally failing to conceal his shock, and what he saw in looking back did not help matters in the slightest. The arched stone corridor had been replaced by the earth walls of a long, narrow ditch, bolstered by sandbags and rotting planks of wood, and edged along its top with barbed wire. The ditch was open to a black, starless sky, occasionally illuminated by signal flares and the muzzle-flashes of distant heavy guns. The floor of this trench was a swamp of well-trodden mud, human excrement, and human remains, the nauseating stench of which mingled with the faint, acrid miasma of cordite and nitrogen mustard that lingered in the air. There was no sign of life save for the man who now confronted him, not that he did much to detract from the pervasive air of death.

He was a thin, pale, boyish soldier in ill-fitting khaki battle-dress, mud-spattered puttees, and a steel helmet, with a rifle slung over his left shoulder, an unlit roll-up in his right hand, and a sad, cynical half-smile upon his face. The High Priest thought that he sensed a shade of amusement at his own expense in the expression, and although his easy confidence had deserted him, his pride had not. He reached for his belt, intending to draw one of his many blades and chastise this insolent spirit, but his hand touched only bare leather. Glancing down, he was further dismayed if not at all surprised to see that his long, ornate black robes, elaborately crafted into his flesh, had been replaced by a similar uniform to the young soldier's: somewhat better-tailored, with the insignia befitting a junior officer, but just as drab and dirty. He could tell without touching his scalp, or even removing his peaked cap, that his 'crown' of ritual piercings had also vanished. _The pain has gone. That constant, blissful memorial of my place and purpose._ Without it, he felt lifeless, empty, and, although it was more than he cared to admit, afraid. _I will not show it, though. My Lord sees fit to test or torture me with the ghosts of my past … the shame of my mortal existence. A fitting irony, perhaps, for my past dereliction. So be it, but I will not give this creature any pleasure of it._

"What means this?" he asked, with every intention of sounding imposing, though he noted with great displeasure that his voice had lost the naturally deep, sepulchral resonance of a Cenobite's. "You seek companions in your suffering, boy? Or is it that you, whoever you are, believe you are owed some revenge against me? You will obtain none this way. These memories mean nothing to me. I have been shown a greater path, agonies more intense and sublime than any petty mortal warmonger could ever devise. I am beyond all this now. I–"

"Like hell you are … begging your pardon, sir," replied the soldier, conceding a note of respect as he apologised, although none of fear. "What would I be wanting with revenge, though? I don't reckon as I've any grievance with _you_ , sir. As I remember, you were always one of the better ones. Leastways, you weren't sitting nice and safe miles behind the front lines, making the plans to send us poor, patriotic bastards off to our deaths. You were there with us … though maybe I ought to be a little offended that you don't seem to remember me, Captain. You've known more than your share of dead folks by now, I suppose, but I'd kind of hoped not to have been lost in the crowd."

"It is not seemly that I should remember any of this." _Those times are past, that man is dead and gone, and good riddance. I have renounced him, even if I now have no choice but to remember him … to remember …_ Something else did stir in his deep memories as he consider the spectre's face, with its strange mixture of boyish innocence and bitter resentment. _An injustice. It struck me at the time, haunted me, helped to lead me down the path of pain and enlightenment._ "Private … Pearce? Sam Pearce?" The soldier smiled again, as grimly as before, and nodded. "Yes, I do recall you. You died in the War."

"Might be as your memory's playing tricks, sir. You and me both outlasted the War, only difference being you survived for three years, while I managed all of eleven sorry minutes after the armistice before some Hun sniper who was slow on the uptake did for me. Unlike you, I didn't exactly have much of a chance to feel guilty about surviving … though with all respect, sir, I reckon I might have dealt with it a bit better. I never asked much from life. I was happy enough with what I had. The fields, the woods, my Eleanor … I'd all that to go back to, and it would've set me to rights in the end. I didn't need to go chasing after no forbidden pleasures, go messing with the occult … and so on. To each his own, I guess."

"You dare reproach me for that? Yet here we both are," he declared, but he could not feign any sense of triumph. For even this felt amiss to him. _Why would Pearce be here? He died, stupidly and cruelly enough, but to my knowledge he never touched a Lament Configuration in his life. Furthermore, he was not even the type to. Merely a callow innocent. I do not think even the War brought out any vices in him other than making him smoke like a chimney … as did we all._ He pushed back that recollection, as it was getting dangerously close to empathy, _and that way lies pity, and that failing has cost me enough already._ Forcing a cold, stern tone, he continued to address his late comrade: "What is it you want of me, Private, and why are you here? I cannot help you reclaim the life you were cheated of, and such mercies as _this_ place has to offer … such mercies as I accepted would, I think, hold little appeal for you. I will take you before Leviathan if you wish it, but I think you would do better to return to whichever limbo you came from. You had courage, but _desire_ was never your forte."

"People can change. You of all folks should appreciate that … and I just might take you up on that offer, sir," he answered, with a grim resolve that impressed the High Priest, even as it surprised him. _Then again, who am I to prejudge? I was unpromising enough material when my Lord first took me, and one of my finest lieutenants was a mere child when he was initiated. Of course, we were both living beings at the time, but the re-creation of flesh is of no impediment to the Engineers, any more than the refashioning and the tormenting of it. If Pearce is willing to face the ordeal, there is always room for another novice in the seminary. On reflection, that would have an amusing irony._ As Pearce continued to speak, however, the immediate mystery was dispelled, but only in favour of another: "There's something I'd like to talk to your precious lord and master about, as a matter of fact. A little proposition, you might say."

* * *

There was nothing particularly uplifting about any aspect of the decaying room – its walls of mould-infected wood; the thick strata of dust that coated most of its floor and furniture; its broken, rust-coasted Victorian gas lamp; and its cracked and cobwebbed windows through which the sunlight could only force a sickly ambience – but such atmospheric trivialities meant nothing to the two operators. _Leave imagining things to the humans,_ thought Steel, wryly, as he paced the waiting room of the abandoned railway station, studying the clearly-defined footprints of the recent visitors. _They do it so well … too well._ There were only two, perfectly logical things that gave him cause for unease. One was the fact that he had been here before, and had not counted on ever needing to return. The other was the box.

It sat in the middle of the table amidst small heaps and ridges of disturbed dust, although its own surfaces were altogether free of dust, smooth and shining. That was by no means the only incongruous thing about it. _Would it look congruous anywhere, and if so, is that anywhere I ever want to see?_ It was of a size to fit comfortably in one hand, but nothing else about it evoked any sense of comfort. Its body appeared to be a solid cube of dark, lacquered wood, overlaid on each surface with gold metalwork in varied geometric designs, the regularity of which was intricately disturbed with a multitude of finely-worked glyphs. From a reasonable distance, the effect was beautiful if eerie, but seen up close that effect was lost, the figures having a crude, jagged, brutal appearance like a multitude of tiny, vicious cuts that violently broke up its symmetry. Sapphire stood over it, her hands clasped tightly together beneath her chin, her posture rigid, and her deep blue eyes fixed in a stare of inhuman concentration. As ever, she was dressed appropriately to the period – the mid-1990s, by their reckoning – in a long, pastel-blue slip dress, with her hair loosely styled, while Steel wore an immaculate, single-breasted pale grey suit with narrow lapels and a thin, metallic-silver tie. In spite of their care to observe such local norms, he suspected that if any humans should walk in on the scene – mercifully unlikely as that was – they would find the operators just as incongruous and sinister as the box itself, _and as ever, they'd be hopelessly wrong. If they understood the half of what they recklessly meddled with, they'd be grateful we found that thing before it caused any worse harm … not that I could call this meaningful progress._

"Well?" he asked, abruptly. His tone made no impact on Sapphire, who continued to stare impassively at the cube for some seconds before shaking her head. "What's that supposed to mean? Come on, Sapphire, I need a spot analysis of that … that thing."

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"'Can't?' You haven't even tried. If you don't touch it, how can you– ?"

"That wouldn't be wise," she interrupted, turning to meet his eyes for the first time, her expression as grave and forbidding as her voice. It took Steel aback just enough that he muted his impatience, but it did not affect his resolve.

"Well, when is anything we ever do 'wise?' We need to know–"

"This is different, Steel. Whatever that cube is, it _wants_ to be analysed, wants to be touched. Can't you feel it?"

"Your field, not mine," he conceded, as meekly as he ever got.

"Exactly … so _trust_ me on this."

"You make it sound alive."

"Yes."

"So … if you know _that_ then you must have got something from it. Anything specific?"

"Not really," she confessed, with a shrug. "Echoes of malevolence, desire, pain … so much pain … and pleasure," she added, although in spite of the superficially positive ending note, her voice only seemed to darken at the insight. Steel merely frowned, dissatisfied. _Oh yes, all very ominous, but not exactly useful intel. I need much more than that if I'm to actually deal with this._

"Look … that _is_ the source of the time break, isn't it?" he asked.

"Well, strictly speaking, we don't know that it was a time break."

"Alright, the 'dimensional disturbance,' then."

"That sounds more accurate … and yes, it must be."

"In which case, we need to know the details, unless you're confident that it's past now, that everything else here's safe," _which would be more than I am. 'Curses' and 'jinxes' may be a naïve superstition, but if any place could convince me of them, it would be this damn railway station._

"Oh no," answered Sapphire, slowly roving her eyes around the room. "Whatever happened, it weakened the whole corridor of space-time, at least locally. See here," she indicated, while pointing towards an unpleasantly suggestive collection of dark patches on the floor, still slightly moist and glistening. "Someone died here, very recently … and very violently. It left an imprint," she explained, bending down and delicately touching the largest of the stains while her eyes glowed an even more vivid shade of blue. In spite of the need for useful intel, Steel could not help but find the sight distasteful. "No, more than an imprint: a potential."

"For what? Psychic projections?" _as if this place hasn't already had its share of ghosts._

"Worse, Steel. With enough influx of energy – if more blood was spilled here, for example – there is the potential for physical manifestation, even for further rifts. This whole area will need decontamination … of the most thorough kind."

"Level it completely, you mean? Clear and purge the ground, fabricate replacements?" he asked, not without some sense of satisfaction at the thought. _Not quite as a simple a matter as sinking the Mary Celeste, but possibly more cathartic._ "Well, we can leave all that to the specialists, give them a chance to pull their weight for once. They're not likely to do anything until we've conducted a full investigation, though."

"Agreed."

"So, if we daren't even analyse that thing, what _do_ we dare attempt? What wouldn't risk causing any further damage?" Sapphire reflected on the matter for a few moments, then touched the large bloodstain again.

"This all happened no more than two hours ago," she declared. "I could take time back that far. We could see for ourselves what happened. That might give us some insight."

"And there's no way that would affect the cube?"

"There are no guarantees."

"Very comforting … Alright, lets try it, but come over here first," he advised, while moving over to the door that led to the concourse: a position that offered a commanding view of the room and also a rapid exit, should one become advisable. _The last time I asked Sapphire to play the medium here, it nearly killed her. Let's at least not be sitting targets this time._ Sapphire straightened up, walked over to his side, and turned back to face the room. Her wide-open eyes glowed vividly again, and a low-frequency rumble, almost subsonic, disturbed the still air, as if someone was trying to vibrate the decrepit building to its foundations with mere sound waves. Although that did not happen, it could not have been said that everything remained stable: though the room remained intact, its outlines seemed to blur and run, and its colours to fade and desaturate. After a few seconds, some of this haze resolved into new forms: an attractive, auburn-haired woman, seemingly in her early-to-mid forties and wearing smart, plain clothing, was sitting at the table, the box in her hands and her expression a mixture of focus and of fear. At some distance from her stood an older man in a dark trench coat, watching her and keeping her covered with a semi-automatic handgun. In spite of the weapon, his own face was no picture of composure, but rather of an anxiety and an impatience that made Steel's recent irritation pale in comparison.

"Get a move on and solve that damn thing, will you?" the gunman ordered the woman, with a game attempt at sounding authoritative, although it did not seem to impress her very much. Looking up from her strange task, the gaze she fixed him with was at least as incredulous as it was fearful.

"You _do_ realise this is probably pointless?" she asked him, her tone bitter and contemptuous, although weak and wavering. "By all accounts, if this thing doesn't want me to open it, then–"

"For your sake it better _had_ do, or … What was that?" he interrupted himself, as a quiet yet oddly resonant click emanated from the box, while the woman's hands fumbled, coming close to dropping it in shock. She did not look at all happy or relieved at her evident progress. "You're getting somewhere with it, aren't you? Keep going, Miss Smith. I want to see it open."

"You're mad," she declared, although her trembling fingers resumed their work.

"If I wanted a mental evaluation, I'd have brought a fucking psychiatrist with me instead of some thieving hack."

"Fair comment, but unless my contacts are all liars then _you_ certainly had no right to own this. Alien artefacts have been classed as government property since 1967, and this meets the definition. Frankly, considering what you had in mind for it, I think I had a duty to–"

"Screw your duty, and your fancy UNIT mates. I paid for that box fair and square, but since _you_ were so eager to get your hands on it, you might as well save me the risk of …" He tailed off again, in deference to the fact that the room had suddenly become darker, while the box gave off a few more hollow, metallic clicks. His stance became more rigid, and his eyes darted around nervously, although he kept his gun firmly levelled. Nonetheless, the woman had taken good note of the dent in his resolve, and she tried to take advantage of that small leverage:

"You're quite certain you want me to continue, Mr. Blackwood? If I was to reverse the motions now, I think we could both walk away from this none the–"

"Like hell we will … no pun intended. I've not come this far and spent damn near all I owned just to pussy out of this now. This is the best chance I'll ever have. You've got five minutes to finish solving it, understood?"

"Knowing what this _is_ ," protested the woman, "I'm not sure that a clean shot through the head wouldn't be preferable to–"

"Happy to oblige, if that's really where you want to take this," hissed Blackwood, his gun-arm tensing. The journalist considered her position for a few moments, but soon enough she resumed her task with a sullen, resigned expression. "That's better, and don't tell me you're not as curious as I am to see that thing open. You sure as hell didn't get involved in this out of simple-minded patriotism. If any ordinary folks was to walk into your place and see all the weird shit you've been collating, they'd think you're as mad as I am."

"Those findings are all authorised, and purely for research purposes, not for power."

"Whatever. Either way, I'd say being shot would be a bit of an anticlimax for you, wouldn't it? May as well make the most of your last moments, and learn what you … Is that it?" he asked, excitedly, as the seemingly-solid box split in her hands. An irregular symmetrical pattern, almost like some Aztec amulet, rose from its uppermost surface in cross-section, until it reached a height equal to the full width of the box. It then slid a short distance along the surface at which point, impossibly, it sank bank to its original height, again leaving a solid cube with no visible recesses. As it did so, the shadows around the edges of the room deepened and shifted, occasionally striking fleeting shapes that were suggestive of dark, lurking figures and swinging chains, while the persistent, echoing metallic noises did nothing to detract from the effect. _I'd call that a result, if hardly an encouraging one,_ thought Steel, sardonically, but the woman, having calmed from the initial surprise, merely shook her head.

"No … No, the final configuration is meant to be a different shape, according to my sources," she explained. "This must be along the right lines, though … if you can call it that. Are you really sure you want– ?"

"Stop trying to worm out of it, and finish the damn thing," ordered Blackwood, although his attempted commanding air now came off very badly. _If it was just him solving it, he'd have backed off by now,_ realised Steel, _but he's not going to admit either his fear or his stupidity in front of her. She'd have done better not drawing attention to it._ Nevertheless, Steel had somewhat more sympathy for the journalist. _Clearly she enjoys prying into things which she shouldn't, but at least she doesn't do any more with them unless she has a gun at her head. A pity it doesn't look as if this ended very well for … as I think we're about to see the details of,_ he thought, as streams of blue plasma suddenly arced across the surface of the box, and the woman dropped it in shock. It fell back onto the table, one of its more elaborate facets facing the ceiling: an image like a stylised sun; sixteen panels of stamped gold, each with its own sinister abstract design, radiating outwards towards the edges of the square, while the centre was occupied by a large golden circle, plain save for four arrows and tiny, regularly-spaced markings that gave it the look of a dial or an indicator. _An axis of some kind, anyway,_ he decided, as the box split in half again, this time along the lines dividing the ray-shaped panels, so that eight radial sections remained static while the sections in-between them slid up, twisted around forty-five degrees, then slid back down, changing the cube into an irregular shape, more like an eight-pointed cross. _But how? How can it have that many moving sections and still hold any shape at all? Assuming, that is, it's a solid object in any real sense. Perhaps … perhaps I should work out the trivialities later,_ he decided, as shadows in every corner and recess of the room suddenly came to life and seemed a more pressing issue.

He had been right about the chains, as many of the thinner shadows, trailing cobwebs, and even the antique hanging lamp had inexplicably mutated into an upturned forest of heavy, swinging, clanking metal chains, most of which terminated in cruel-looking hooks and blades. Compared to the new arrivals, however, these were mere Halloween decorations. There were roughly a dozen of the pale figures, as near as Steel could tell between the poor lighting of the dimensionally-shifted room and the faintly blurred, washed-out quality of Sapphire's time-shift. _Would I even want a better view of them?_ Their look and demeanour was somewhat militant, their postures rigid and disciplined, and their black clothing and shaven heads having a certain uniformity, but everything else about them spoke of chaos, madness, and pain. Two of them, a man and a woman, stood apart from the rest, nearer the centre of the room, and they also seemed to be distinguished as senior by their clothing: long, concealing, elaborately embossed robes in a leather-like material, as opposed to the attire of their underlings, of similar material but closer-fitting and more revealing, although 'provocative' was not the right word for any of them. Their cold, robotic mannerisms were off-putting enough, but far worse were the mutilations each of them bore: strangely decorative and formal in their repulsive brutality, they reminded him of the designs on the box. Their uniforms were hooked and sewn into their skins, which were themselves modified as if they were no more than garments, pieces artistically flayed off or stitched, stretched, and cauterised into elaborately distorted patterns, in some cases reducing their whole faces to inhuman, mask-like parodies.

The two senior officers, as they seemed, were both lucky enough to possess whole faces, although neither were unscathed: the woman's neck was gashed and stretched open on a wire frame anchored in her cheeks, while the man's bald head was methodically scarred in a criss-cross lattice, with a long silver needle driven into his skull at each intersection. In spite of the savagery of their appearance, their manner was cold and harsh, though the woman showed a little more emotion: there certainly seemed to be a flash of something like hunger or lust in her black eyes as her gaze fell upon the journalist, who still sat the table, her head bowed and her eyes averted. At a confirming nod from her fellow commander, the mutilated woman drew a small, curved, serrated knife from her belt – all of the pale creatures were well-equipped with crude, sharp instruments, none of which looked as if they might offer a quick or merciful kill – moved over to the journalist, pulled her head upright, and held the blade to her neck. Blackwood needed no such disincentives to keep his eyes open: he stood in the midst of the surreal, grotesque scene, his eyes caught between morbid fascination and sheer panic as they darted back and forth, and his gun still raised. The male commander – the one with the myriad head piercings – took a few slow, stately steps in his direction and fixed him with an inscrutable stare, as if challenging him to make some account of himself. Although, in Steel's opinion, the human occultist was now clearly regretting that he had ever started this insane venture, Blackwood swallowed, lowered his trembling arm, and addressed the entity in as composed a tone as he could manage:

"You are … Cenobites of the Order of Leviathan? Guides to the furthermost regions of sensation?" The pierced man exchanged a brief, almost amused look with his co-commander before returning his icy stare to Blackwood, and nodding briefly. _Toying with him, as he should have had the sense to realise. What is it with humans imagining they're something greater than a mild curiosity to the multidimensional universe, if not a downright annoyance?_ "I have … longed to meet you, for many years. I offer you this woman as a token of my–"

"You presume to offer me what is mine already?" interrupted the lead 'Cenobite,' his voice proud and sombre, and his black eyes narrowing. "Some might call that an inauspicious beginning to our acquaintance."

"There will be others, I swear it," Blackwood hastily replied, almost stammering over the words. "As many as you want. I can get them for you, no trouble. All I ask in return–"

His proposition concluded in a piercing cry, for the very good reason that one of the many chains dangling from the ceiling had suddenly come to life, lashed out like an attacking snake, and had hooked its barbed end into his gun-arm. His weapon had barely hit the floor when another chain impaled his free arm, then others caught his legs, and then any semblance of order, never mind of restraint, went out of the window as a full-on swarm of metal serpents sank their fangs into any portion of soft tissue they could locate. Somehow, he managed to force enough coherence through his screams to plead for mercy, but it did not last for long: one of the smaller chains took the opportunity to dart inside his open mouth, hook itself to his tongue, and tear the greater part of it out. By the time the onslaught was finished, he was crucified on a whole web of chains, his skin pulled taut and bloody where they had hooked onto the exposed areas of his face and hands, and he expressed only burbling whimpers of agony as the lead Cenobite approached him with a calm and measured stride, managing to look almost spider-like in his demeanour. _Certainly predatory._

 _"_ What do you take me for?" asked the Cenobite, sternly and disdainfully. "A shopkeeper? A prostitute? Or simply one who finds it difficult to realise his own desires? No matter. Evidently, you have been sadly misinformed as to the nature of our operation. Allow me to educate you."

Suddenly, and in perfect unison, the chains retracted to their original positions, and Blackwood's body offered no resistance: within less than a second, they had reduced him to an assortment of dangling, skewered lumps of meat, the largest of them being a forearm. Miraculously, the omnidirectional shower of blood that this 'educational' act caused did not leave so much as a drop on either the Cenobites nor the box, although the journalist was less fortunate, as it sprayed across her face and caused her to close her eyes again and to turn away, in spite of the blade at her throat, with a gasp of shock and disgust. This drew curious, almost uncomprehending stares from those Cenobites who still possessed expressive faces, including their leader.

"Open your eyes, child," he commanded her. In spite of the patronising, strangely ecclesiastical-sounding style of address, there was no contempt in his voice, if no warmth. The journalist obeyed, albeit hesitantly, and forced herself to return his stare, steadily though with evident nausea and dismay. "That is better. You would not wish to face your fate in ignorance."

"Why did you look away?" asked the female commander, her voice cold, raspy, and disapproving. "If one had used and betrayed me the way he has done you, I would take pleasure in watching his death. I would take even greater pleasure in inflicting it. Do you think you are better than me?" she asked, with a dangerously playful edge, as if daring her prey to find an answer that was both honest and diplomatic. The journalist gave it her best, although her answer was less than fluid on account of both panicked improvisation and hyperventilation:

"Oh … no … Not at … all … I just … probably … you and me … see the world … a bit differently … I suppose."

"I see cruelty, hypocrisy, flesh, hunger, and desire. What do you see?"

"Well … there's those … and a few … other things … like love … kindness … honesty … humour, of course," she added, resignedly, as several of the Cenobites reacted to her suggestions with hollow, mirthless laughter. That disturbance was brief, however, as their leader raised a silencing hand, and none of them hesitated to obey him. Sensing a change in the mood, the journalist took a deep breath and resumed: "Look … I should admit, I probably don't know as much about your order as I ought to do–"

"That can be easily amended," declared the leader, in a tone that could just as easily have been gracious magnanimity or veiled threat. "Please, continue."

"Right … Well … as I understand it … your earthly agents sell these boxes to the people you've earmarked as potential recruits … or as toys," she added, with a quick, morbidly curious glance at the bloody tatters of the late cultist, gently swinging on their chains. " _I_ wasn't sold it, nor did I intend to open it. If there hadn't been a gun at my head–"

"Don't obfuscate, child. By our law, desire is consent, and yours is valid. For all his stupidity, that arrogant fool was right about you, at least: you _did_ desire to open the box, even as you feared to do so. At all events, you had a choice."

"With respect, hardly a meaningful one."

"Not so. All mortals die, but you preferred to take your chances with us, and part of you even welcomed the opportunity to learn our secrets first-hand. So you shall … but compose yourself," he ordered, with a note of distaste, as she failed to repress silent tears of fear and despair. "You are more useful to us unharmed, at least for a time. Enough of this," he declared, while picking the box up from the table, slowly and reverently. "It is time we were leaving. We have such sights to show you, and less time in which to do so."

Deftly but delicately, as if he were handling some fine surgical instrument, the lead Cenobite reversed the motions of the box, stage by stage returning it to its original shape. As he made the final motion, the light suddenly returned, the gory chains and pale figures vanished in an instant, and all that was left to mark their having been there were a few bloodstains on the floor, where Blackwood had been standing just prior to his dismemberment, and the box upon the table.

 _Enough, Steel?_ asked the voice of Sapphire, telepathically. _The next event of any note will be the point at which we came through that door. I can only show events as they transpired in this dimension, and they have taken her out of it._

 _I've seen enough, but what were they? Were they human?_

" _Were_ possibly," she answered, as the colour flooded back into the scene and everything came back into sharp, present-time focus. "How could they be human now, Steel? No human can survive wounds of that magnitude, however they were inflicted."

"What, then? Were they time refractions? After-images?"

"No … They did have physical substance, but not sustained by life … not by _their_ life, anyway. It must be an external source."

"The Darkness," declared Steel, with an air of inspiration, although Sapphire merely gave him a sceptical frown. "Well, why not? It makes sense."

"Just because we're back here? I had that entity in my _head_ , remember?" she reminded him, not without an air of reproach. "The Darkness doesn't operate that way. It has no use for physical servants. It feeds off the psychic energy of the resentful dead."

"You just said those things, those 'Cenobites' _were_ dead, to all intents and purposes, and I think _I'd_ be pretty resentful if someone did that to me."

"No, Steel. The Darkness wouldn't expend energy sustaining them in their pseudo-life, even for the purpose of torture. It's parasitic. It only ever takes."

"It expended energy bringing Pearce's ghost here, surely?"

"I doubt that. Pearce would have haunted this place with or without the Darkness. This place was the focus of his resentment, the place where he was made to feel like a hero then sent to a futile death. More likely, _he_ attracted _it_ here, then it used him as a magnet to attract the other ghosts. An efficient, if hardly a humane feeding cycle … and anyway, why would the Darkness want to take that poor woman hostage? It was sincere, at least. It accepted the 'sacrifice' you gave it," she added, her reproachful tone deepening.

"There was no choice, you know that," insisted Steel, firmly if uncomfortably, while averting his eyes from her. "It would never have accepted less, and we had nothing to threaten it with short of calling in the transuranics, and what damage _that_ might have inflicted on this area, perhaps even this whole planet, I dread to think. One death is better than many. Tully died a hero."

"Some comfort, I suppose," she answered, without conviction. "Well, at any rate, there's no reason to suppose the Darkness was involved this time. This place is isolated, derelict: a good venue to commit a murder, or to stage a kidnapping. I think it's coincidence."

"Maybe," conceded Steel, with no more conviction. "I don't suppose it makes any difference, since all we've really got to go on is this box, which we don't even dare touch, right?"

"It would be inadvisable."

"I'm almost tempted to freeze the thing, and have Lead pulverise it, put it out of commission for good. Except …"

"We can't just abandon her," said Sapphire, her gently-voiced statement lending words to his own frustrated thoughts. "This is no different from the house, and the nursery rhymes. If we tolerate outside forces breaking into this continuum and stealing whomever they please, we might as well all defect to the enemy camp."

"There are times I could almost be tempted. Humans … They do like to create problems for themselves, don't they?" he asked, rhetorically and irritably, while pacing around the table and fixing the box with a glare. "Prying into things any fool could see should be left well alone."

"It wasn't her fault, Steel. Not really. Anyway, I didn't like the sound of what they had in store for her. It hinted at a greater agenda, and I doubt that's something we can afford to treat with lofty indifference."

"Good point, but how we're going to tackle that issue when our only asset is a fatal accident waiting to–"

 _Quiet,_ interrupted her psychic voice, urgently. _Someone's approaching, coming along the footbridge … coming here._

 _Get behind the door, Sapphire,_ he ordered, while quickly and silently moving to flank the doorway from the opposite side. Their backs against the wall, they awaited the new arrival. Only a few seconds later, the door opened and a man entered: tall, grey-haired, and bearded, he looked to be at least in his sixties, but he carried himself with almost as strong and formal a bearing as the lead Cenobite had done. Thankfully, his ensemble of tweed jacket, flat cap, and public school tie did not make for quite such a threatening effect as his predecessor's, but Steel was taking no chances: as soon as the man had stepped far enough into the room, the operator seized him by the shoulder and telekinetically immobilised his motor system.

"Whoever you are, you have my attention," said the man, his tone somewhat slow and awkward on account of numbness, but with impressively little show of fear. _Disciplined. An ex-soldier, at a guess. Whether that's good or bad, who can say? Humans do love their wars, and we don't exactly have good luck with soldiers when it comes to this place. We may as well hear what he's got to say for himself, though._

"Who are you," asked Steel, curtly, "and what are you doing here?"

"Lethbridge-Stewart's the name," he answered, with the same sang-froid as before, "and I'm looking for a friend of mine: a young woman, name of Smith. I don't suppose–"

"Let him go, Steel," said Sapphire, stepping forwards, and wearing a sad, pained expression. "He's unarmed, he's definitely human, and at this stage it can't hurt us to share what information we all have, amicably. This is likely to be quite unpleasant enough as it is."


	2. Chapter 2 - Weeding

**CHAPTER 2 - WEEDING**

Bearing in mind that Sarah had been expecting her day to quickly progress from 'catastrophic' to 'abandon all hope,' recent events had been almost uplifting.

After having reset the puzzle box, which teleported them from the gruesome parallel version of the station waiting room into a full-on Hades dimension – all coldly blue-lit corridors of crumbling stone, sinister echoing cries, and epic non-Euclidean architecture that would have made even M. C. Escher's head spin – the High Priest excused himself, and entrusted her into the custody of his deputy: she of the gashed neck, the disturbingly hungry eyes, and the voice like an Ice Warrior making an obscene phone-call. Sarah had been less than optimistic that this arrangement could end well, but the Cenobite Priestess had executed her duty faithfully, albeit with a somewhat grudging air, escorting Sarah through the convoluted passages and finally locking her into a vast, crypt-like room with a vaulted ceiling and many small alcoves set into the stone walls. Their catacomb-like appearance was nothing if not off-putting, but when she finally dared investigate them, she was pleasantly surprised to discover that they contained books and scrolls rather than human remains, although she did not care to think too deeply about the origin of some of the parchment and bindings: some brown, some olive, some pale pink, and at least one sporting what looked ominously like the remnants of a tattoo. Still, there were no other distractions on offer, so she selected one of the less offensive-looking volumes and settled down on a stone bench to read it.

Instead of the graphically illustrated torture manual she had been half-expecting, she was again pleasantly surprised to find that it was some kind of mythical chronicle: a sort of _Prose Edda_ of the Labyrinth, containing tales of battles, court intrigues, and past folk-heroes, although of course which tales were real and which were mythology was not something she could even make an educated guess at. _I mean, to all intents and purposes, I'm in Hell, so to dismiss anything as a fairytale from this point would be more than a little block-headed._ Many of the stories, much like the epics of Earth, seemed to hint at more glorious days, and the Cenobite heroes and heroines depicted in their illuminated panels – although still violently mutilated and quite painful even to look at – were fierce, intense, passionate figures, quite unlike their cold, formal, emotionally distant, and all-too-obviously brainwashed descendants. _More willing recruits for the order back in the good old days, maybe? I'm not sure even old Needle-Bonce could last more than one round against some of those bruisers … not that I'd ever say that to his face._

She was still reading this chronicle with fascination when the ghost of the young soldier came to join her. Under anything approaching normal circumstances, this would not have been such a happy event – his mournful air; his pale, washed-out appearance; and the cold aura that accompanied him were hardly calculated to lift her mood – but all negatives were outweighed by the simple fact of him not being a Cenobite, _and if I get any choosier than that about the company I keep around here, this is likely to be a lonely stay as well as a traumatising one._ Furthermore, when she got talking to him, she found him to be a kind, sincere sort, genuinely concerned and displeased that the Cenobites had captured her, although from what she could gather her abduction was connected to some arrangement he had with the High Priest. On that subject, however, he became evasive, and tried to deflect her questions with simple reassurances, _and some hope that I'm going to be convinced by those, whether he means well or not._ Still, she was in no mood to alienate her only likely friend this side of the nearest inter-dimensional portal, so she curbed her curiosity for the time being and suffered him to continue.

"Look, Miss, try not to worry yourself about it," he urged, his naïve, boyish, old-world gallantry seeming so ludicrously out-of-place that it was all she could do to suppress an ironic smirk. "The captain … the High Priest, I mean: He ain't such a bad sort … or he wasn't, anyway. Might be as he's changed a little, but not so much as he'd like to think. He never had no sense of humour anyway, so no loss there … not that there was ever much to laugh about in the trenches. You took what chances you could, mind. Had to, if you wanted to stay sane. Him, though: hardly cracked a smile the whole war. Not at the concert parties, nor the _Wipers Times_ … not even that time when we was billeted in Pommier, and we were playing football with the French lads in this muddy old field we'd requisitioned. Captain Spencer goes for a sliding tackle, gets his shorts ripped clean off by this big twist of barbed wire that's half-buried there. No worse harm, thank the Lord, but he didn't see the funny side. Reckon as he was the only one, though."

"Well, I shall definitely try _not_ to picture that the next time I see him," replied Sarah, having allowed herself to indulge a quick burst of giggles that she knew would be much better stifled in the High Priest's company. _Unless I get the sudden urge to have a big twist of barbed wire forced down my throat and a football inserted in both of my eye sockets, anyway._ "It's … really hard to imagine, looking at him now. If you don't mind my asking, Private … ?"

"Oh, just call me Sam, Miss. I've been stuck in limbo for so long, it seems, going over my past like some broken gramophone record – you couldn't call it 'reliving' so much as 'death with nightmares' – it's nice to remind myself that I weren't always a soldier."

"In that case, call me Sarah," she replied, affably, although his melancholic reflection had totally killed off her sense of mirth. _Experiencing the same horrible, tragic, futile things in a never-ending loop … Suddenly, I have to admit, the eternal S &M dungeon afterlife business model has actually lost a bit of its sting. _"So, Sam … what became of you both? Did you die in the war?"

"Not quite. I copped it exactly eleven minutes after the November the 11th ceasefire … and I remember thinking it was a sick irony even at the time. Many lost their faith in God after they came back from the trenches. Me, I still reckon he exists, but I don't care much for his sense of humour. Enough to make anyone give the Devil his due … As for Captain Spencer, he came back, but he just couldn't cope with life anymore. Took to drink, drugs, debauchery, cutting, but even none of that could drown out the voices, stop the nightmares … until the day someone sold him something that they told him would change his life forever."

"The puzzle box," she declared, grimly. "So, the Cenobites get a new recruit with free military experience thrown in, while the poor old captain simultaneously gets his ultimate highs, punishment for his survivor's guilt, and a hefty dose of mental oblivion … and everyone's happy," she concluded, with heavy irony, although Pearce merely nodded, sadly.

"That's right, Sarah … though I'm blowed if know why I should remember _that_. It weren't no part of my life, that's for sure. Maybe that's just how being dead and in limbo works, though: you pick stuff up, sort of like wireless signals." _Ghost internet? I suppose that's a possibility. All way over my head, though. What I wouldn't give to have the Doctor here._ "Anyway, just you try not to worry … silly as that sounds. You've no cause to, though. Ain't no-one here got a grievance against you," he added, somewhat enigmatically. _Is that why I've been brought here? To get revenge on someone else? No prizes for guessing who the prime suspect's got to be …_ "My old CO may not be quite the man he was, but when all's said and done he's still a man of honour, I'll lay odds on it. Oh, you mightn't want him on your arm at Ascot, for sure, but he wouldn't hurt you just for the fun of it. Bide your time, and you'll come through this alright." For a hundred-odd year-old ghost apparently held this side of oblivion by his very understandable misery and resentment, she could not help but find Pearce almost laughably naïve. _I wouldn't like to guess at the number of poor, curious fools the Honourable Elliot Spencer has mangled for fun since he went on his final, fateful bender._ However, she was careful to keep any note of judgement out of her tactful reply:

"Perhaps, Sam. There's no harm in hoping … but you see, by the standards of _this_ place, I don't think he need worry much about his honour. I solved the Lament Configuration, knowing what it was: a contract, and unless all of my sources on it were way off mark, there's only two ways that can go for me. Most probably I get chained up and tortured, put back together, then rinse and repeat for all eternity or, if I'm a very lucky girl, I become one of them … which is really stretching the definition of 'lucky,' and very unlikely in any case. Even if I found that a more appealing prospect, I hardly think I'm Cenobite material."

"Elaborate, please," ordered a powerful, cultured, chillingly familiar voice from behind her, causing her to start with anxiety. She quickly composed herself before rising and turning to face the High Priest. Pearce also rose, and saluted him, albeit with a somewhat disapproving air. The salute was not returned, as he continued to address Sarah: "Why, pray, are you not … 'Cenobite material?' I am curious. My Lord has shown me something of your past. Based on the years you spent with the Time Lord, and even those since, one could be forgiven for thinking that you sell yourself short. You have resourcefulness, courage, intelligence, endurance, guile, pride … I have known many, with qualities less marked than those, who have used the box and taken it for granted that they would be chosen for our order. Most of them are still whimpering in their private hells even as we speak. What is it you lack, child, that should give you less confidence than them?"

"Thank you … I think," she replied, coldly if nervously, "but there's one thing I definitely _don't_ have: I could never torture anyone. I've been tortured … quite a few times, actually, as you probably know by now, and I could never inflict that on anyone. Sorry to disappoint."

"I see," he declared, blandly, before turning to Pearce. "We have matters to discuss, Private. There have been developments."

"All good ones, I hope, sir?" asked Pearce, his tone as military and respectful as anyone could wish for, but his eyes still troubled. _Poor lad, probably regretting that he ever got into this, just like he regretted being lured into enlisting. I suppose it was too much to hope that death would make us all wiser beings._

"A potential complication, but nothing serious. Perhaps even advantageous. Also, those two you told me of have arrived: the operators."

"I didn't reckon they'd stay away too long. Pity, really. They're well-meaning, I believe, but they're also never happy unless they're interfering." _Sounds a lot like someone I know …_ "Can your people cope with them, sir? They're devious as hell, mark you."

"I imagine they will try to outwit us, but it makes no difference. We hold all the cards. Still, I would know more of them and their capabilities. Accompany me, Pearce. We can leave our other guest to amuse herself, for the present. Indeed, I see that she has already availed herself of our archives," he added, while glancing at the open book she had left on the stone bench, his tone as unnervingly ambiguous as ever.

"I, err, could always put it back where I got it, if you–" she attempted to offer, but he cut her off with a dismissive wave.

"Please, indulge yourself," he declared, magnanimously, before adding, "I know that you will repay me for the privilege, one way or another."

"Sir … there's no reason why we can't just let her go free after this, is there?" said Pearce, carefully and deferentially, but very pointedly. _He may not be the sharpest tool in the box, bless, but he's no coward._ The High Priest gave him a silent stare for about two tense seconds, then raised one corner of his mouth and one transfixed eyebrow in vague amusement.

"By her own admission, she is of no use to me," he answered, almost casually. "In any case, our quarry is no fool. He will accede to no demands unless he knows that the 'bait' is safe. Does that satisfy your chivalry, Private?"

"I suppose," he almost mumbled in reply, his expression downcast and embarrassed. "I just don't see why we need to be cruel to her, is all. What happened to us weren't none of _her_ fault."

"If we obtain our objective, she need have no fear, but come now. We have far more important matters than this to discuss."

They left the room via the same door through which Sarah had been led into it. She attempted to resume her reading, but her curiosity had deserted her amidst a storm of troubled speculations. _'Bait' … for the Doctor, it must be. But what could he have done to those two to make them so vengeful? Did we accidentally start the First World War while I wasn't paying attention? I don't recall the TARDIS landing on top of any archdukes, but maybe–_

She was distracted from her thoughts by a plaintive cry for help. While phantom wailing seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in the Labyrinth, this one struck her for being louder, more articulate, having a sense of direction, and for being unaccountably familiar. It was not from within the room, but it certainly seemed to be nearby. She attempted to dismiss it, and bury herself back in her reading, but it was a futile attempt as the cry was soon repeated: unmistakably human, close at hand, and redolent of despair. _And I do seem to know that voice … from somewhere. If only–_ It repeated again, and this time she crossed to the door and listened. She did not have to wait long before she heard it yet again – a man's voice, utterly miserable, pleading for help – and she was able to deduce that it came from a short distance down the corridor outside, back along the way they had escorted her. _Well, I don't suppose there's much I could do to help, even if they'd left … which they did,_ she thought, as she tried the door and found it unlocked, with mixed feelings. She was sorely tempted to ignore the voice rather than risk the wrath of her hosts, whatever guarantees of safety her status as 'bait' gave her, but on hearing it again she could only feel ashamed of her cautious instinct. _They need me in one piece, that's plain, so what's the worst that could happen? Obviously a lot better than whatever they're doing to that poor sod. If I don't at least try to offer some solace, then perhaps I deserve to be in Hell._ She heaved a grim sigh, steeled herself, quietly pushed open the door, and set out.

* * *

"You thought you'd buy them off?" asked Steel, incredulously. His shoes inflicted unnecessary violence upon the waiting-room floor as he paced, while Sapphire rolled her eyes at her colleague's chronic lack of patience wherever humans were concerned, and their colleague Silver sat at the far end of the table, minutely examining the puzzle box with the aid of a jeweller's loupe and a selection of precision tools in a black cloth roll, trying his best to ignore the ruckus. Lethbridge-Stewart, who was also seated at the table, watched Steel's outburst impassively, even as it became overtly insulting and sarcastic: "Well, I suppose that shouldn't surprise me by now. I know to expect some impressive feats of suicidal stupidity whenever amateurs like you get involved in our operations, but still … _Buying_ them off? From what I've seen of your friend's kidnappers, Brigadier, I have my doubts they'd even have any use for your money. Other than heavy-duty leather polish and sharpening blocks, their material needs are probably quite slender."

"Yes, well I obviously wasn't expecting to deal with these Cenobite chaps, Agent Steel," replied Lethbridge-Stewart, quite unfazed. "I was expect–"

"Just 'Steel,' if you don't mind."

"As you wish. Err, you and your colleagues wouldn't be Time Lords, by any chance? Only I assume from the fact that your technician here materialised out of thin air that you're not simply the CID," he asked, while indicating Silver.

 _'_ _Time Lords,' Sapphire?_ Asked Steel's perplexed voice, in her head.

 _Extraterrestrials,_ she replied, _with access to advanced spatio-temporal warping technology, although no naturally-evolved affinity for time manipulation. Merely technological prowess. Don't you ever bother to read our databases?_

 _Have I got time to take an interest in every meddling idiot out there?_ he asked, before turning his full attention back to the Brigadier, his whole demeanour stern and disapproving.

"Most definitely not," he declared. "When we get involved, we only do so to _prevent_ damage to time and space, or if necessary to mitigate its effects. Never for the sake of it."

"Hmm, I feel like I've heard _that_ one before," said Lethbridge-Stewart, with a wry half-smile, but he quickly repressed it as Steel's expression somehow managed to darken even further. "I do apologise. That was rather churlish of me."

"Think nothing of it, Brigadier," Sapphire reassured him, charmingly, while leaning across the table. She cast a fleeting glance at Steel, who took the hint and settled down upon the nearest chair, much to her relief, leaving her to handle the diplomacy. "So, you believed the ransom note you received came from these cultists, then?"

"It seemed a safe assumption. Miss Smith had been trailing this 'Sacred Order of the Black Diamond' for some months now. She'd even infiltrated a couple of their meetings, hoping she might get a story on them. That was nothing to interest UNIT at first, though. However unsavoury their beliefs, without any evidence of criminality or terrorism to pin on them they were protected by religious freedom under international law. That was until, of course, she found out that they'd somehow come into possession of a Lament Configuration box. _That_ changed things just a bit, but UNIT's not as independent as it was back in my days. They needed time for the government to authorise a raid, but Sarah was convinced that there was no time to lose: that the cult was already planning to capture some poor innocent and force them to open the box in a full ceremony … so she took matters into her own hands."

"And she stole the box from them, I see. And then she contacted you … but why not contact UNIT directly? I assume that you _are_ a retired member?"

"More off-duty than on-duty these days, shall we say?" he answered, a little wistfully. "Sarah and I go back a long way, though. Long enough that I'm not likely to delay or quibble when I get some note threatening her life unless I hand over a hundred thousand pounds, especially not when there was every chance it was authentic. She'd said that more than a few of the cultists were getting cold feet about the whole thing, so it wouldn't have been much of a surprise if they'd just decided to abandon ship, earn some quick cash on the side, then make themselves scarce. UNIT itself can't accede to ransom demands, though: government policy. It had to be me."

"Alone and unarmed, though, and in such a remote location?"

"Indeed, although not unsupported. I _did_ let UNIT HQ in on the news, believe it or not, and Brigadier Bambera knows to act if she doesn't hear from me within twenty-four hours." Steel gave a brief, derisive snort at this news, which thankfully drew little reaction from Lethbridge-Strewart. _Just as well he isn't the type to rise to the bait, since Steel seems in no mood to stop throwing it. I'd be so grateful if we can avoid a repeat performance of all the futile bickering we had the last time we were here, while the Darkness was running rings around us. There were times it must have been tempted to just sit back and watch us argue ourselves to death …_ "Might I take it that military support will be meaningless, under the circumstances?"

"Unless your Brigadier Bambera has access to a space-time warp, it _is_ hard to see how she'll be able to help your friend," said Sapphire, a little dryly but with total sympathy. "We may have better fortune, though. Can I see the ransom note?"

Lethbridge-Stewart took a small, folded piece of coarse parchment from out of his jacket pocket and laid it upon the table. The handwriting on it was in modern English, neat and legible, yet ineffably unappealing, the shapes of the letters crude, harsh, and jagged, yet formal to a regimented degree. If anything, they reminded her of the small carvings on the box, each pen-stroke a meticulously cruel little slash, as if the writer had cared as much about making the parchment suffer as sending a comprehensible message. A little gingerly, she laid a hand upon it and commenced a spot analysis: _Parchment is organic, cellular. Primary constituents, fibrous structural proteins: keratin, filaggrin. Trace elements of protease enzymes, lipids._ She turned her attention to the ink: _High iron content, bound as a cofactor to organic proteins. Trace elements of deoxyribonucleic acid … with a human gene sequence. Oh dear._ She quickly removed her hand from the parchment.

"Brigadier, I do not believe this was written by any human hand," she announced, _although it might well be made out of one, or some other body part._ "One other thing: I sense that this was not the first time the writer had transcribed this message. There are probably several copies of this note. The Cenobites, their agents, or their masters seem very keen that many people should be informed of Miss Smith's last earthly whereabouts."

"Ten to one, because they want us … or they want _someone_ to walk into a trap," said Steel, cynically, then turned to Lethbridge-Stewart. " _You_ , perhaps?"

"I doubt that," he replied, self-effacingly. "I think I can hazard a guess who, though: our old scientific advisor. Like as not, he made enemies of them in the past … or maybe in the future. It seemed to be his thing. Still, if that is the case, they're likely to be waiting some time for him. Even I wouldn't know how to contact him these days. He turns up as and when he feels like it."

"For all we know, the Cenobites may have the luxury of time," pointed out Sapphire. "They're immortal beings, that was clear enough. Perhaps they just need to make a grand enough gesture to get his attention whenever he does deign to make an appearance."

"Yes, but Sarah _isn't_ immortal, and trapped in their dimension …" said Lethbridge-Stewart, leaving the sentence ominously unfinished rather than express his thoughts on the matter. _Self-controlled on not, he cares deeply about her. Steel will probably see that as a liability, but I will dare consider it an asset … and hope that it is not in vain._ "Even if they need her alive for now, the chances of her leaving such a place unscathed, mentally or physically … Please, if you have any means of getting her out of there, even if it means getting us _into_ there, I'm willing to chance it."

"I'm working on it … if anyone's interested, that is," said Silver, while keeping his eyes fixed upon his task. "You know, this really is a most fascinating device. Exquisite craftsmanship. Mechanically impossible, of course, assuming that it works exactly as you described it."

"Which it does, and I hardly needed to call on a specialist to tell me _that_ ," complained Steel. _At least he's being democratic in his ungraciousness._ At that remark, Silver finally took the loupe out of his eye, laid down his tools, and turned to Steel, his manner not at all offended, but decidedly patronising. _Well, he was asking for it._

"Ah, but you don't know _why_ it's mechanically impossible, do you?" pointed out Silver, leaving Steel, to his evident frustration, lost for an answer. "I didn't think so. Well, Steel, this mere specialist can tell you _that_ , anyway. Put very simply, it's because there's more than one of these boxes coexisting in the same spatial coordinates, but each with a different mechanical arrangement, and each occupying a different stratum of the spatio-temporal interface that it controls. Actually, was that simple enough for you?"

"It's dimensionally transcendental, you mean?" asked Lethbridge-Stewart, impressing and astonishing the whole company, and especially Silver.

"Err, yes. I couldn't really have put that better myself … Anyway, let's posit at least three of these major configurations, superficially similar but each with a totally different mechanical design. To access the next configuration, and thus progress through the spatio-temporal interface, you need to solve these minor meridians," he explained, tracing the point of his index finger slowly along the narrow paths marked out by the intricate metalwork of the box, although being careful not to actually touch it. "Unfortunately, and here's the _real_ problem, there are multiple solutions to each configuration, like a sort of security lock. While one _could_ solve it by trial and error, it wouldn't be wise. More than likely, wrong solutions get flagged up on whatever this other dimension uses for a security system, and these Cenobites are sent to apprehend the intruders, or worse. No, the trick is not merely in solving it, but in solving it _correctly_ , in such a way that will allow one to slip discreetly into their dimension."

"And can you?" asked Steel, impatiently. "Could you dismantle it, work out the correct solution?"

"Possibly, but that might very well flag up on their system too if it has an automatic threat response, and in any case, I'd also need to dismantle the next major configuration, and the next … I think sooner or later they'd be bound to notice something, don't you?"

"Then do you have _any_ ideas?"

"Well … I could always try reduplication," he suggested, albeit with a less than fully confident air. "I could synthesise a copy of the box – a dummy version, if you like, made of inert matter – dismantle _that_ , then use it as a guide to solving the real version. Mind you, I wouldn't dare call that a perfectly safe fix. Even assuming the box doesn't react to being copied, bear in mind I'll still have to do this for each major configuration–"

"Meaning we'll be stuck in the interface – in limbo, essentially – while you work out the next stage, and the next?" interrupted Steel, sceptically.

"I'm afraid so Steel."

"And while we're stuck there, we're presumably highly vulnerable. I don't much care for that. Is there anything we can at least do to improve the odds?"

"I've a suggestion," piped up Lethbridge-Stewart, instantly attracting three very different looks: one politely indulgent, one mildly curious, and one plain irritated. Undeterred, he continued: "When you've worked out the right solutions, let _me_ be the one to actually manipulate the box."

"The mission hardly begun, and you're in the mood for a heroic sacrifice already?" asked Steel, moderating his impatient tone but only managing to sound weary and condescending. "Thank you, Brigadier, but if it's all the same then I'd sooner you didn't come at all. We'll handle things far better by ourselves. Whatever's on the other side of that interface, you can at least be certain that you'll be way out of your depth in it."

"That'll make a change," quipped Lethbridge-Stewart, ironically, and mainly to himself, but then he turned back to Steel, with a much firmer demeanour. "I understand your reservations, but I believe there's one thing you may be forgetting, Mr. Steel. These Cenobites are or were all human beings, correct?"

"Yes," answered Sapphire, "or at least the ones we encountered were."

"Right, and we know that their agents sell the box to humans to lure them in. So, this, err … parallel universe, I suppose, depends upon capturing humans and bringing them to its domain."

"For labour, entertainment, and probably also for psychic energy," speculated Silver, while simultaneously resuming his rapt examination of the box. "An efficient, if essentially a parasitic business model, although they _could_ always argue that they're doing this dimension a favour by weeding out the troublemakers. Inter-dimensional symbiosis, if you will."

"In that case, Mr. Silver, since the box was only ever intended to be used by human hands, do you not think it possible it might also cause an alert on their system if someone non-human – as I presume you all are, if you'll excuse the impertinence – should be the one to solve it?" Silver considered that point for a few moments, then frowned.

"He's right, Steel," declared the technician, gravely. "The more variables we can eliminate, the better our chances of infiltrating successfully. If he's willing to take the risk–"

"Very well, then," conceded Steel, grudgingly, to Lethbridge-Stewart's evident satisfaction and Sapphire's private satisfaction. _The right decision, on more than one level. Whatever Steel may think, it's obvious enough that these two – without our considerable advantages – have been as brave and committed to defending this world from external threats as any of us. They are practically comrades-in-arms, and I know the strength of that bond all too well. Even if we did not need the brigadier, I would still prefer him to come._ Silver, taking great care to touch the box for no longer than necessary, darted his right hand forwards and took it between two fingers. For a fraction of a second it seemed to blur and distort, then his hand pulled away just as quickly, holding what appeared to be an exact copy of it.

"Good lord!" remarked Lethbridge-Stewart, sincerely impressed although somewhat less astounded than one might have expected, _but I feel he's seen more amazing sights than Silver's sleight-of-hand nanotech tricks._ "That must be a dashed handy skill to have."

"What? Oh … I suppose it is," replied Silver, nonchalantly, as if he had never really given the matter any consideration, while he retrieved one of his tools and began to dismantle the duplicate box with extreme care. "However, I shouldn't care to rely too much on it when we're on _their_ side of the interface. In their dimension, their rules and their physics will apply, and from what we've seen of them so far, I think we can safely expect chaos."

* * *

It did not take Sarah long to locate the room from which the sounds of distress were emanating: it was the next door down from the archive room, on the opposite side of the corridor. No Cenobites were about, mercifully, and with her ear pressed against the closed door she could near no-one else in the room other than the mysterious unfortunate, as well as a very curious, atonal ambience with a very vague resemblance to music. _Like a drunk church organist playing backwards, possibly … and why is it that I even find that familiar?_ Although quite certain that it was far from being the wisest thing she had ever done she, Sarah pushed the door open as quietly and as minutely as she could, and she slipped stealthily through the gap.

The long room beyond, through which she now slowly proceeded, had the same style of Cyclopean stone architecture as the rest of the Labyrinth, but the walls were incongruously embellished with arched Gothic windows, their diamond-leaded panes cracked and stained. Though these windows, she could make out a dark sky overcast with turbid clouds, although the view was obscured not only by the deteriorated state of the glass but also by the contents of the room. For other than a narrow, clear aisle down the centre, every corner of it from its cracked flagstone floor to its high ceiling was festooned with an overgrown mass of plant life: trees, shrubs, and vines, all thick and untended, while the eerie, atonal music resonated all around her, _and I have been here before, I'm sure of it. But … ?_ then, as she drew near the far end of the room and her gaze fell upon a small patch of dark green, gourd-shaped plants with lumpy green skin, everything fell hideously into place. _Krynoid seed pods_ , she realised, quickly backing away from the ugly, infectious alien plants, _and the voice: I know who, now … but he's dead. It can't–_

"It _is_ you, then," said a voice behind her, harsh and bitter. "Well there's a fucking turn-up for the books." _Scorby … but how?_ Slowly and apprehensively she turned around, and saw him standing in the aisle, back along the way she had come, and looking just as he had when she had last seen him, over twenty years ago: tall and rangy, with untidy dark hair, a short goatee, an Uzi 9mm machine pistol clasped in his hands, and a hard, brutal face, full of resentment. "I thought I heard your voice out there earlier," he continued. "Thought I must have been hearing things, though. I mean, _you_ down here? Thought you were a nice girl, that butter wouldn't melt in your prim little mouth. Guess it goes to show anyone can be a hypocrite. Please tell me your smug bastard of a friend's down here as well. That'd make it almost worthwhile."

"No. The Doctor's not here," _unluckily for me._ "but … but I don't understand. How _can_ you be down here? You were killed by the Krynoid's plants, I remember. UNIT found your body … or had you used the puzzle box some time before?"

"'Puzzle box?' You've lost me there," admitted the long-dead mercenary, taking a step torwards her while she inched back as far as she dared. "I know fuck all about any puzzle box … but this _is_ Hell, right? Fair's fair, I can think of a few reasons why I might have ended up here. Can't say I led a spotless life, but hey, we're not all born with silver spoons up our arses like you and your friend and that madman Chase. A bloke's got to earn a living somehow."

"I'm … almost surprised they haven't given you a job down here," she remarked, although not in perfect truthfulness. _I wouldn't. Even the Cenobites must have a few standards._

"Ah well, their boss is like you and your Doctor friend," replied Scorby, taking another step while Sarah, not daring to back out any further for fear of the Krynoid pods, desperately scanned around for a plausible escape-route through the thick vegetation, but found none. "He's stuck-up, sees someone like me as beneath him, fit only to use and chuck away. Him and his mates tortured me for a bit, then they got bored and just threw me in here, alone. _Here_ , of all places," he added, half-contemptuously and half-miserably. "A place that's nothing but a reminder of the worst time of my life. They might at least have given me a cell done up like that fancy brothel in Tripoli where the lads and I used to hang out between contracts. Happy days … I'd even have settled for one like that village near Benin City, where we had to rough up all six of that farmer's daughters before he'd cough up the intel we needed. But _this_ dump … Seriously?"

"Well, at least they let you have your gun," pointed out Sarah, struggling to sound casual and to keep the disgust out of her voice, for her own safety. _Speaking of intel, it would be nice to know if that gun could actually hurt me, if I do try to make a break for it._

"This thing? Fuck all good that does me here. It's no use against the zombie bondage brigade. Hell, those creeps would probably enjoy it, if anything. They just leave it here to taunt me. Oh, I've tried doing myself away with it once or twice. Hurts like buggery, then I just black out and wake up later, completely healed. I guess it'd be much the same if I tried it on you … then again, who knows?" he added, viciously, as he registered the fear in her eyes. "Maybe you _do_ still have something to lose. I sure as hell don't."

"I … don't see … how killing me would do you any good … either," she said, close to the verge of panic. "It's not my fault … that you're here … nor is it the Doctor's. He tried to warn you, but you insisted–"

"'Not your fault?' If it hadn't been for you two fucking heroes, I could been off Chase's estate while the going was still good. I should've killed you both back then."

"And without the Doctor, the Krynoid would have germinated, remember? It would have killed _everyone_ , you included."

"I'd have lived a bit longer, wouldn't I? Maybe squeezed in a few more good times before sodding doomsday hit," he replied, in all seriousness, disgusting her to the point that she could no longer contain it.

"You mean that? You'd have let everyone else die just so you could while away the apocalypse getting wasted?" _On reflection, I can definitely see why the Cenobites turned their noses up at this one. A Dalek would have a better teamwork ethic._

"You know, that's the other thing I hated about you: you're a judgemental little bitch," he declared, taking another step, so forcefully this time that she instinctively backed away, her heel bumping against one of the Krynoid pods. Horrifyingly, she saw a crack forming along the length of its blotchy green pericarp, and she edged forwards again, but the distance between her and Scorby was now down to barely a metre, and he had taken good note of her dilemma. "Hey, you should be careful, girl. I'm guessing you'd rather not go the same way poor old Keeler did … though actually, maybe that'd be more interesting for me. I've had my share of fucked-up shit in the bedroom, I don't deny, but I can't say as I've ever shagged a triffid lady before. What might that be like, do you reckon? Maybe if you don't want to find out, you should drop the airs and start being a bit nicer to me, then maybe I'll give some thought to letting you go after I've satisfied–"

 _I'd sooner be shot,_ she realised, with grim certainty, but there was one more thing to try, a fool's hope though it seemed. She took a large step backwards, right over the pods: a move that confused Scorby enough that he did not react, except with a dumbfounded look. Then, double-checking to see which was the pod with the cracked skin, she kicked. Her aim was surprisingly true. _If by some miracle I survive, I should see if Chelsea LFC need a new striker._ Scorby raised his hands in an effort to protect his exposed skin, but it was a futile one: the pod split fully open mid-flight, releasing its tentacle-like shoot, which wound itself around his bare right hand, prising the machine pistol from his grasp and causing him to scream in fear and agony. Sarah did not waste her advantage: she jumped back over the remaining pods, seized the dropped Uzi, and barged past her injured, distracted opponent. She was almost at the door back to the corridor when she heard his voice behind her, again plaintive, and she turned to look back. Scorby was now down upon his knees, quivering with sickness on account of the toxic spores already rampant in his bloodstream. As the alien plant tissue propagated within him, she saw his hands turning completely green, coarse, and bloated, and she knew it would be only minutes before the mould-like growth consumed his entire body. His voice was so sick and weak that his words were barely coherent, but sheer desperation gave him the willpower to force out one last plea:

"Don't … leave me … like this."

"What do you expect me to do, Scorby?" she asked, endeavouring to sound reasonable, although as the words came out even she had to acknowledge that they were cold and hard. "If those pods _are_ real Krynoids, then it's incurable, you know that. If not, then you'd be better off asking the High Priest for mercy. _I_ certainly don't have any control over what goes on in his–"

"Just … shoot me … It's happened … before. I've … touched those … pods … but if you … shoot me … it'll be over … at once … If not, it'll take … hours … hours of agony … Please." Sarah's hands tensed on the gun, but before she could raise it she found herself thinking of scenes from twenty years ago: the Doctor, tied up in a composting machine; Scorby holding a gun to her head, and tying her up near a ticking bomb; Scorby threatening to throw the Doctor to the Krynoid, on the vaguest of hopes that it would spare his life … then she found her mind drifting to that farm in Benin City and wondering how typical it was of Scorby's career before he had found settled employment as Harrison Chase's private security chief, _how many other girls were raped, beaten, and killed by him and his jolly lads before he decided to play loyal henchman to a complete and utter megalomaniac? And even now, in Hell, tortured by demonic sadists and raped by alien weeds, he still hasn't a shred of remorse, can't even see the irony in it. Well who am I to deprive him of any karma that comes his way?_ She raised the Uzi, only to fling it through the nearest of the decaying windows, while Scorby watched with abject despair written in his wide, now green-veined eyes.

"Well, Scorby. You wanted sex, didn't you?" she pointed out, her tone glacial and her expression sneering. "Enjoy," on which note she turned and left the room, to much the same sad, whimpering tune as had drawn her there in the first place. This time, however, it evoked few emotions in her other than contempt. She had just commenced the walk back to the archive room when she heard a voice behind her; quiet, rasping, and menacing in spite of its polite words:

"My compliments, Sarah. We thought you had underestimated yourself. We were right."

She stopped, sighed, and turned around. As she had expected, the Cenobite Priestess stood close behind her. Her weapons were sheathed, and her demeanour was calm, but nothing could ever make the waxen-faced, gash-throated woman a reassuring sight. Even more disconcertingly, the door to Scorby's private Hell seemed to have vanished, leaving only blank wall. _Or was it ever there at all? Have I, to coin a phrase, been conned yet again?_

"Was any of that real," asked Sarah, wearily, "or just staged for _my_ benefit?"

"Does it matter? It proved its point."

"Well … jolly good … and now, if it's all the same to you, I'll just be going back to my–"

"You will come with me before Leviathan," interrupted the Priestess, sternly. "You are to be initiated at once. You are most privileged."

"Err … thank you," she replied, somehow managing to strike a polite tone in spite of her anxiety having returned with a vengeance, "but, err … aren't you forgetting something?"

"I think not."

"The High Priest … and Sam Pearce … the trap. I'm supposed to be your 'bait,' remember? What sort of use am I as bait if I'm a … a … ?"

"'Cenobite?' Of compromised use, certainly, but have you not heard, girl? We are on the verge of acquiring another hostage, of equal or greater value. You are now surplus. But rejoice," she urged, to no purpose, as Sarah's heart sank. "Very soon you will be immortal, and know greater pleasure than you have ever conceived of … and pain. Such exquisite pain."


	3. Chap 3 - No Furies For a Woman Scorned

**CHAPTER 3 - NO FURIES FOR A WOMAN SCORNED  
**

 _Just keep walking,_ thought Sarah, with extremely forced composure, as she marched back up the corridor, trying not to think too hard of the fact that she already ought to have passed the door to the archive room by now, but was thus far encountering only more wall. _Don't look back. Miss Whiplash will get bored of bullying you in an instant, you'll see. This is all a misunderstanding. You heard it from the High Priest himself. He said I had no cause to fear as long as they achieve their objectives … and the fact that I'm now down to trusting his words is perhaps an indication of how deep in the doo-doo I seem to be, but there's no harm in a little optim–_

"This is futile, Sarah," hissed the Priestess, still close behind her in spite of the distance she had covered. _Either she has a very light tread, or she's wearing a pair of ruby slippers under those robes._ "It is only yourself you are running from." Her tone was somewhat softer than before, but if anything the vaguely sympathetic note made it worse, and Sarah rounded on her angrily.

"Whatever you people are planning to do to me, I'll thank you to cut out the damn gaslighting," she ordered, eliciting only a small, curious, possibly impressed tilt of the Cenobite's head. "If you're going to hurt me, then just hurt me already, but I've had all I mean to take of _that_. What the hell do you think gives you a privileged insight into my psyche?"

"Nothing is secret nor sacred here, child. We all stand naked before Leviathan, and he sees all that we would deny or conceal … as you have already had a taste of."

"Look, what happened in there …" Sarah began, intending to argue that she had only acted in self-defence, but she quickly felt the weaknesses in that angle. _I could have shot Scorby. I didn't need to leave him to die slowly._ "That wasn't me … or it was, but … it was an aberration, okay? Just a lapse … a really bad one … but that's not the person I want to be, ever."

"I am not judging you," replied the Priestess, seeming perplexed at the very notion. "I am pleased for you. Why should you not take pleasure in the suffering of such a creature? What other purpose does a man like Scorby serve, what other benefit does he bring?"

"It doesn't matter _who_. It's a line you just don't cross."

"But I _do_. Routinely. If it is a line, then I exist permanently on the other side of it, and I would have you join me there, then you will understand better. You do not yet know how favoured you are, Sarah. Only our most promising initiates have the honour of being singled out by our Lord and Master to be remade personally by him. Most are just given over to the Engineers, whose work is certainly competent, if rarely exceptional. On occasion, when I am particularly indifferent to results, I even allow my more accomplished novices to work on a candidate. There is a purpose to it beyond mere sadism," she added, wearily, as Sarah's lip curled. "The creation of Cenobites under battlefield conditions is a vital skill that all of us must have some ability in. Crossing dimensions as we do, we cannot always assume that our Lord will be there to aid us."

"So," Sarah began to ask, her memory drifting back to the railway station, the squad of Cenobites that had arrived to claim her, and some of the ones she had taken particular notice of, "does that explain that guy with the camcorder wedged in his eye? And the one with all those compact discs stuck into his head?" The Priestess managed to hold a totally impassive expression for about a second, then the corners of her blue-lipped mouth contorted in what could only be described as a very reluctant and very ironic smile, although it was still the warmest expression Sarah had ever seen her manage.

"We will not talk of them," she eventually replied, firmly, but with the faintest undertone of amusement. "Particularly not in front of the High Priest. Even he has his … sensitivities. At all events, _you_ need not fear being subject to any such crude outcomes. Leviathan's artistry is second to none. He will take all of your shame and your weaknesses, refine and temper them into beauty and strength, and sear them into your body and soul."

"Amputate my pesky conscience, you mean, turn me into some kind of Dalek on two legs? Thank you, but–"

"Hardly," interrupted the Priestess, her demeanour once again stern and grave. "Those machine-creatures seem to be deeply engraved in your memory, yet I find them even less inspiring than I do Scorby. To live only for hatred … Such a pointless, self-defeating goal, as pathetic and delusional as I would expect from any other mortal. I don't envy them at all."

"Well, I'm not trying to make the argument that we're all perfect … but in that case, what do you Cenobites live for?"

"Pleasure, of course. The great, undeniable experience, and we live to serve our Lord Leviathan, who makes it possible for us to know that experience to its utmost extremes, for all eternity. You will not easily persuade me that our raison d'être is misguided."

"And pain? Torture?"

"Merely other facets of pleasure. What other purpose would pain serve for an immortal? It is pointless trying to explain it, though. You must experience it for yourself, then you will know. As for your moral qualms, know that we deal with all here according to their merit. The box is not given to innocents, and neither you, nor I, nor even the High Priest dare claim that we were. Those who use it to seek forbidden and extreme pleasures are granted them, albeit on terms we decide, likewise those who seek forbidden knowledge. Only those who use it to try to gain power over _us_ , or who show us grave disrespect are truly punished: some have been deprived of all sensation for centuries. If they could, they would sell their souls again just to feel a moment's pain. Your Mr. Blackwood now counts himself among that company, but you … you have shown respect, courage, curiosity, and intelligence. Our Lord sorely needs such initiates. He will not be denied."

"Look, I'm … flattered … honoured, even," said Sarah, sincerely, albeit in the process of scanning the walls for any doors she might have missed on her way. _The state of mind I'm in, small wonder if I'd gone right past the room or misremembered it. If I could just find Sam Pearce again, then at least I'd have an advocate of sorts._ "Freaked-out, I don't deny, and very afraid, but definitely honoured. Be that as it …" Her words tailed off as a narrow doorway in the left-hand wall caught her eye. She was almost certain that it was not the door to the archive room, and that even if it was, her dead soldier friend would have little to say that would sway the Priestess, _but nothing ventured, and so forth._ "I'm doing you a favour, really," she continued, while backtracking carefully towards the door, followed by the inscrutable black eyes of the Cenobite. "I'd be lousy at this job. I even feel bad about spraying greenflies. I'm rubbish with knives; I can't even chop a salad neatly."

"You will find me a most accommodating tutor."

"Right … well … I'm truly grateful, and I'll be sure to think over your interesting offer," _probably over the course of several recurring nightmares,_ she thought, while sidling her way through the doorway. "For now, though, I could really use some alone time, so if you don't mi– …"

Her words and her thoughts both stalled as she took in the view beyond the doorway. Instead of the enclosed room she had expected, she now stood in the middle of a long, narrow stone causeway, open to the cloudy, turbulent sky, and elevated to such a height that both of its sides boasted an awe-inspiring view of the Labyrinth. Its network of viaducts, stairways, arcades and cloisters seemed to extend to infinity in all directions, and its many-tiered structures seemed to be of unfathomable depth, yet even this could not command her attention for long. For at the far end of the causeway, some five hundred-odd metres ahead of her and at least a thousand metres tall, stood a vast black monolith. It was thin and multifaceted, tapering to a fine point at both top and bottom, giving it the shape of a colossal diamond. It slowly rotated on the axis of these points, while hazy black beams shone from its flared midsection, scanning the expanse of the Labyrinth like negative searchlights. For a few moments the sheer spectacle of it took Sarah's breath away, then she realised what it was, drew a defeated sigh, and let her head droop forwards. _The black diamond … Leviathan. Kind of hard to see any way this is going to end well for me now._

"You stand awestruck before your Lord," declared the Priestess, approvingly, somewhat missing the point of Sarah's broken demeanour. "That is well, but we must not linger. Proceed along the pathway, child. There are formalities to be observed before your attainment of glory."

The Priestess's cold hand touched upon her shoulder, causing her to flinch forwards in irrepressible disgust. Since she was instantly aware that this was a less than diplomatic reaction, that the price for disrespect might be dire in the extreme, and that there was nowhere left to run in any case excepting a sheer drop, she allowed her flinching to turn into a steady, solemn advance, although as slow as she dared. Unfortunately, it still did not seem very long at all before the Priestess called her to a halt, about halfway down the causeway's length. Another Cenobite awaited them at this point, sitting casually on the edge of the precipice while, disconcertingly, smoking a cigarette. She looked a little similar to the Priestess, with the same gashed throat; pale, blueish skin; and bald head, but her outfit was markedly different from her superior's long, modest black robes. _A little obvious, perhaps? If we're to avoid using the word 'trashy,' that is._ She wore a short, tight, long-tailed leather jacket with short sleeves and silver buckles; calf-high leather boots; black fishnet stockings seemingly held up by garters of metal wire, embedded in her flesh; and a very inadequate black leather skirt. Sarah at first thought that the junior Cenobite was wearing long evening gloves as well, but on closer inspection the effect was simply due to the skin of her hands and forearms having been systematically flayed and peeled back, exposing dark red tissues. _Lovely …_ As they arrived, the smoking girl got to her feet, quickly extinguished her cigarette, and flicked it into the void while the Priestess glared pointedly.

"Hi, Sarah," the young Cenobite greeted her, politely. Her voice had the same hollow resonance as all of her kin, but with an American twang that briefly took Sarah aback. _Then again, why not? That box must have been sold far and wide, for centuries._ "You're a journalist, right? That's cool. I once knew a journalist. Nice girl … I wish she could have come here, but she kind of got on the wrong side of the High Priest. It didn't end prettily, mostly for him as I remem–"

"We will not talk of that," cut in the Priestess, very severely. She moderated her tone a little as she turned to Sarah again. "As you may have inferred, this is another of my novices: a recent acquisition, along with those two you mentioned before. All were initiated during the same … field operation," she explained, her hesitation and poorly-suppressed grimace making it clear that she had been sorely tempted to substitute her last words with the term 'appalling fiasco.' _There's a story behind this, but not one I'm certain I want to know._ "Believe it or not, she has proven by far and away the most promising of them. You may call her 'Dreamer,' if you wish. I believe that is her preferred … nickname," she added, a little distastefully, while the younger Cenobite gave a wry smile and a nod of acknowledgement. "Earthly names and identities, at any rate, mean nothing here. It is our duty and our joy to relinquish them, and in accordance with that we will cease to use your former name from this point. You are, until you attain a higher degree, simply another novice of the Order, albeit one I have considerable faith in … and I do not advise you to attempt _that_ ," she cautioned, having correctly interpreted Sarah's morbid contemplation of the seemingly-fatal drop from the precipice. "It is harder than you would think to commit suicide here, and patently unnecessary. You have imagination, child. Allow yourself to consider the benefits. Are power, pleasure, and immortality meaningless concepts to you? Or do you simply consider yourself unworthy of them?"

"I believe I already said … enough with the gaslighting, okay?" replied Sarah, forcing defiance through her tears. "You're going to brainwash me, mutilate me … Fair enough … I can't stop you … I almost wish … you'd just get it over and done with … but at least have the goodness to spare me the–"

"Err, you might want to brace yourself for this bit," recommended Dreamer, leaving Sarah briefly bewildered, until she followed the novice's gaze skyward, and realised that one of Leviathan's black rays was on the verge of sweeping across the causeway, exactly where they were all standing. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for physical pain …

… which did not come. On the contrary, most of her senses became vague, distorted, and dreamlike, except for her vision, which remained intense, but detached from the present. She saw herself as she had been over twenty years ago, within the darkened console room of the TARDIS, seemingly alone. _The planet Exxilon … The power loss that grounded us … The Doctor left me, got distracted by some rocks, almost got us both killed … Typical._ She was using a hand-crank to close the main TARDIS doors, unaware of the presence that was silently creeping up on her, through whose eyes she now relived the scene. It drew closer, within touching distance, when her younger self finally became aware of it. Terrified, the younger Sarah swivelled around, raised the metal crank handle, and swung it down, again and again, each blow of her improvised mace driving the watcher further down, until it collapsed upon the floor. She then made a dash for the crank control and worked desperately to open the door again. She had just succeeded when the watcher, finding some last reserves of strength, made a grab for her ankle, but to no avail. Sarah raised the handle again, and delivered two more savage blows to its head. Everything went dark …

… then light again, as she found herself back on the stone causeway, upon her hands and knees, tears streaming down her face, and her fear and despair now enhanced by long-buried guilt. _Did that Exxilon survive? I was so afraid, but I didn't need to batter it near to death. It was probably just as terrified of me, some alien invader materialised out of nowhere._ She was so deep in her shame that she did not even react to the cold, firm touch of the two Cenobites as, each taking one of her arms, they pulled her back to her feet.

"You saw that?" asked the Priestess, addressing her novice.

"I … guess so," answered Dreamer, confusedly, "if you mean, like, the inside of a freaking spaceship and some creepy-ass alien monster thing getting clobbered by the new girl. Either she's led a _very_ interesting life, or she's mad … or I am, worse luck."

"By mortal definitions, child, you are an impossible fairy-tale creature who dwells in Hell. You should abandon your scepticism … just as _you_ should abandon your guilt," she added, for Sarah's benefit. "You acted ruthlessly to neutralise a threat. What else is there to consider?"

"I didn't know for sure," said Sarah, weakly. "It _might_ have been threatening me … or it might just have been trying to get my attention … I didn't ask … Just attacked it."

"Someone tries to sneak up on _me_ in a darkened room, they're getting that crank up their ass, never mind on their head," declared Dreamer, her earthiness doing rather more to lift Sarah's spirits than the Priestess's cold nihilism. "You've been beating yourself up over _that_? And I thought I had self-esteem issues …"

"We were all prisoners to delusions and weaknesses before Leviathan saved us, and brought us to our state of total acceptance," said the Priestess, solemnly. "So shall it be with her … but ready yourself again," she warned Sarah, as the monolith's slow rotation carried another of the black beams into their vicinity. "It seems that our Lord has not finished with–"

Black light momentarily flooded Sarah's sight again, then dissipated to leave another vision from two decades years ago, this time seen through her own eyes, as she remembered it. She stood within an old-style computer room, all tape-reel mainframes, flashing lights, and split-flap display counters, with walls of bare concrete all around, and a dark-haired, mature woman wearing a green uniform and glasses who was seated at a keyboard. The sight of her instantly exorcised Sarah's guilt in favour of hatred. _Hilda Winters. Arch-elitist, terrorist, murderer, sadist, would-be world leader … heaven help us if she ever had been._ She remembered their first awful meeting at Think Tank. Even before she had shown her true, criminal colours, the director had taken every petty opportunity to belittle and humiliate Sarah, before subjecting her to outright mental torture by falsely threatening her with death at the hands of the K1. _Kettlewell's robot … his son, practically. Sentient and emotional, not that that stopped her from reprogramming it to commit murder, violate its own prime directive, suffer pain and madness just so that she could realise her sick ambitions._ Now, surrounded by UNIT forces, her co-conspirators all arrested, and her ambitions laid waste, she was taking what revenge she could, preparing to activate a full-scale nuclear holocaust and thus devastate the world that she had once dared to paint herself as the rightful, worthy ruler of. _Everyone and everything, just toys to be thrown out of her pram … The Brigadier should just shoot her and have done with it._

"Get away from that keyboard," ordered Lethbridge-Stewart, his automatic pointed at her, but waiving the option of actually firing it. _He won't. He's chivalrous, and she's unarmed, if you don't count having remote control of the entire world's nuclear arsenal,_ thought Sarah, cynically, and she was not surprised as Miss Winters called his bluff with a smug smile:

"You won't shoot, Brigadier," she declared, serenely, which did it for Sarah. _Billions of people about to die, and it's nothing but a joke to her. No way in Hell is she going to be one of the survivors,_ she decided, seizing Jellicoe's dropped pistol from the floor.

"Maybe he won't, but I will," she declared, aiming the gun at Miss Winters. "Move away!" Disappointingly, the director obeyed, albeit with the same smug air, but hardly enough to justify homicide. _What I wouldn't have given for a solid excuse, though …_

Her senses snapped back to the present, although she was instantly aware of feeling quite a bit colder. _What the … ?_ The reason why proved to be both eminently normal and vexing, as it dawned upon her that her skirt, her jacket, and most of her blouse now lay around her feet, neatly-slashed, and the two Cenobites, while each keeping her steady and upright with one of their hands, were wielding sharp knives in the others. That seemed a very good reason for her not to struggle, but not reason enough for her to refrain from verbal protest:

"What the hell do you think– ?" she managed, before the Priestess silenced her by laying the flat of her blade across her mouth. _Fair enough, then. I wasn't all that curious._

"Peacefully, child," the Priestess advised her, withdrawing the blade as the anger quickly faded from Sarah's eyes. "I am pleased to see such spirit in you, but it is ill-timed. You will receive more suitable attire very soon, but as I told you, our Lord is an artist. He wishes to examine his canvas more fully. We will neither harm you nor violate you," she attempted to reassure her, while running the edge of her knife up the length of Sarah's left leg, somehow managing to slice cleanly through the thin fibres of her tights without leaving a mark on her skin. _This is really, really wrong, but being a human statue is still the best way not to get flayed alive right now._

"Sure we won't … unless you want us to, of course … scratch that remark," said Dreamer, resignedly, as she earned herself another quick glare from her superior. "Seriously, though, you've got nothing to be ashamed of, in more ways than one. So tell me, then: who was that bitch-queen with the old-timey computer?"

"Her? Oh … That was Miss Winters," answered Sarah, feeling her hatred stir again, which was actually quite a nice feeling. _Under the circumstances, almost empowering._ "She abused and tortured a friend of mine, then she tried to kill us all in a temper tantrum."

"Sounds like the perfect party guest," quipped the novice Cenobite, while kneeling, laying down her blade, and manually removing Sarah's shoes. "She still alive?"

"I don't know. She's probably in prison if she is."

"No sweat, then. That'd make it all the easier to tempt her into using the puzzle box, wouldn't it?" suggested Dreamer, slyly. "Just imagine that: her _here_ , and you one of us. That'll be a reunion I'll bet she'll wish she'd missed."

"That's … just … way too tempting."

"Excellent," remarked the Priestess, matter-of-factly, while removing the last of Sarah's clothing with a few deft slashes. "Then I believe we are almost ready to commence, unless …"

"Incoming!" announced Dreamer, as another of Leviathan's beams aligned to their position. "Heads-up, new girl. Looks as if the big boss really wants to get to know–"

A rapid sequence of images now flashed through Sarah's mind, but mainly focused on one particular figure: a beautiful, crystalline entity, with a superficially female form. _Superficial because you stole my genetic print, you scheming, murdering bastard. Eldrad._ The alien terrorist who had invaded her mind, hijacked her body, copied her genetics, and then used them to seduce the Doctor into taking her back to her home planet. _Or was that just how it seemed to me? I don't know. He said he only did it to keep Earth safe, but the way he went about it …_ There had seemed to be more than a hint of gallantry in the Time Lord's behaviour towards Eldrad, certainly more than Sarah could have imagined him extending towards the much less attractive likes of Linx, Davros, and Styggron. _Enough to make me jealous, anyway, to make me wonder if our relationship was going anywhere or was as aimless as the TARDIS itself, to make me put it to the test._ She remembered how, needing to know his true feelings towards her, she had expressed the wish to return home. She remembered his reaction to that all too vividly:

"How did you know?" asked the Doctor, surprised, as he turned away from the wood-panelled TARDIS auxiliary console to face her.

"What?" she replied, perplexed.

"I've had the call from Gallifrey."

"So?"

"So I can't take you with me. You've got to go."

The vision faded, leaving her staring down the causeway at the great, polygonal mass of Leviathan, its sharp edges blurry through her tears, her naked body shivering in the cold, bitter wind. Feeling utterly drained and humiliated, she actually felt some vague solace when Dreamer laid what was clearly intended to be a sympathetic, if rather bloody hand upon her shoulder.

"'You've got to go?' He actually said that?" asked the novice, incredulously. "Jeez, your boyfriend was a dick."

"No … It wasn't like that. He–"

"Hey, don't defend him. I've made _that_ mistake more than a few times, letting them talk you into thinking it was all your own fault. You love and respect someone, you don't treat them like old baggage, period. The guy sounds just like my ex."

"And the less I need hear of your 'ex,' the better," remarked the Priestess, sardonically, then became deadly serious as she turned to Sarah: "So, the Time Lord takes you aboard as a convenient replacement for his last mortal pet, to keep his loneliness at bay and to stroke his ego on demand. He lets you believe you are his best friend, perhaps more. Then, as soon as his own people extend a welcome to him – so he believes – he ditches you as a mere embarrassment, yet _we_ are the ones who gaslight? Look at me, child," she ordered, as Sarah had turned her face away to hide her mortification. Reluctantly, she obeyed, and forced herself to meet the stern, resolute gaze of her would-be 'mother superior.' _Well, I guess I wouldn't be the first to become a nun after being screwed-up by a relationship …_ "By mortal standards, I do not deny that we are evil. As for what I think of mortal standards, and how well most mortals seem to measure up to them … that subject may be best left for another time. Evil as we are, however, we are loyal and even-handed. We operate by hierarchy, yet in the gaze of Leviathan all of his chosen ones are essentially equal. Her, you, me, even the High Priest. All are valued."

"Straight up," agreed Dreamer, sounding somewhat more solemn than usual. "Hell, this is the nearest I've ever had to a family worthy of the name. Now, my actual family … Well, let's just not go into that lovely topic. It's enough to say I'm short on regrets."

"Indeed, as you will be," continued the Priestess, while a large, ominously coffin-like object appeared over the edge of the causeway: a wooden cubicle, about two metres tall, its walls decorated with metallic designs very like those on the puzzle box, with a narrow entryway in its front panel, leading into solid darkness. "Come now," she ordered, placing a hand upon Sarah's left shoulder and, with Dreamer's aid, gently impelling her towards the cubicle. "It is time. In a few minutes you will understand all. We will be bound in spirit and in vocation. We will cross dimensions together, traverse realities, share experiences such as no mortal ever dreamed of, and we will _never_ abandon you, never denigrate you. You belong to us … and we to you."

Her soothing, insidious words, along with Sarah's already battered emotions, achieved their objective, and by the time she had regained enough presence of mind to question the wisdom and morality of the whole thing, it was too late: she was inside the cubicle, and a sliding door was closing behind her, enveloping her in darkness. _Stepping into yet another mystery box … I'm getting a bad record for–_ she managed to mentally articulate, before invisible hands seemed to grab and pinion her. She braced herself for the inevitable pain. She was not disappointed.

 _Christ, this is going to be a wasted eff–_

It was bad enough to begin with – the cold, acute pain of various deep piercings, like thick hypodermic needles – but just about endurable, then it went up by several stages of intensity and any question of stoic endurance went out of the window: the cold burn of metal slicing skin and flesh; the fiery burn of hard, red-hot objects being pressed into her skull, that it was a wonder to her how her brain did not simply boil out of her ears; the sickening jolts of agony as teeth and nails were ripped out; and she screamed as she had not screamed for years, for what little relief that afforded. Suddenly, at its terrible peak, she seemed to cross a threshold: it was as if her body had realised that this pain, severe as it was, pertained to no threat, that it would never kill her nor even truly injure her, that it was mere sensation, and although that sensation itself had not changed, her response to it had, as if her overworked pain receptors had given up the ghost, _and left it all for my pleasure receptors … Oh God._ She still screamed, if anything more loudly, but with a dramatically different cadence, even as her face and her scalp continued to burn; her skin continued to be sliced; and strange, painfully-tight garments were stitched and pierced onto her body. _Yes … oh yes … Is that it?_ she thought, disappointed, as the overload of sensation came to an unexpected lull. _Well I suppose there's not much left of my flesh to take apart by now, more's the–_ That thought was drowned in a cataclysmic tidal wave of pleasure as her eyes were suddenly excised from their sockets and replaced by two burning hot objects. That, and her loudest scream yet, seemed to signal the culmination of the ordeal, but even as the full intensity of the pain subsided, the echo of it lingered, leaving her body in a constant agony that would have made many a mortal crave death or unconsciousness. _To me this is bliss, and strength._ The cubicle door opened again, and she stepped out into the open without fear or shame.

She seemed to have gathered an audience. The Priestess and Dreamer were still there, each standing on one side of the cubicle, and a few others had gathered further down the causeway, including the High Priest and Sam Pearce. The latter looked even sadder than usual, and markedly displeased. _On my behalf? The irony. The poor boy, trapped in the limbo of his own resentment and misery, without friends, without sensations. He is the one in Hell, not me. This is Heaven._

"Jeez, girl, you want to try that a bit louder next time?" asked Dreamer, with playful sarcasm. "I'm not sure they heard you in the neighbouring universe."

"I … hope I did not disturb–" replied the new novice, a little self-consciously, before the High Priest cut her off with a dismissive hand-wave.

"Do not apologise, my child," he urged. "The sweet crescendos of your agony and ecstasy eclipsed the Music of the Spheres. Now, behold," he commanded, as Leviathan shone another, narrower black down upon the causeway, which resolved into a perfect holographic image of a female Cenobite. _She looks … quite familiar … in more ways than one._ "Appreciate the beautiful work of your Lord and Master, and do him reverence."

As she compared the hologram to the parts of her own body she could see, she found that it corresponded in every detail. Like many of the lower-ranking Cenobites she now wore a close-fitting black bodysuit, although not of leather, but of some woven, silk-like material with glittering fibres of metal worked into its mesh, harsh against her skin. It covered her from her neck, where it was anchored into her skin with an inbuilt choker of sharp silver hooks, to her wrists and her toes. It was backless, allowing her to see the many intricate red sigils that had been carved into her otherwise pale, blueish skin. She wore no shoes or boots as such, but the backs of her feet were elevated a few inches upon sharp points of black crystal that had been drilled into her heels. Her hands were bare, but her fingernails had been replaced with long, sharp shards of obsidian crystal. _In fact, we have a theme going on here …_ More black crystals were embroidered onto her clothing, while others were tattooed in swirling patterns on her cheekbones; a concentric ring of larger, pointed crystals was fused into her bare scalp like a crown or a halo; tiny, sharp crystal shards had replaced her teeth; and two multifaceted black gemstones glittered from her eye-sockets, beautiful but eerie and insect-like. While the design was certainly original, she could see clearly what had inspired it. _Eldrad must live … Well, why not? One good body-print theft deserves another._ A low, sepulchral ripple of laughter escaped from her pale lips as she knelt before the great monolith of her god. _He who is mighty has magnified me, or words to that effect. The Priestess was right: he has taken the pain and weaknesses of my past, and transfigured them into pleasure and strength. Who I was no longer matters. I am who he has made me._ She bowed her head low as another beam of black light washed over her, seeming to caress and stimulate every newly-made wound in her body, to her intense delight. _I please my Lord. Excellent._ The same could not be said for Pearce, who chose this moment to finally speak up, in a tone of controlled but evident anger:

"Sir, you told me she'd come to no harm," he said, presumably to the High Priest. As the novice rose and turned back to the assembly, she saw that this was indeed the case, and that the lead Cenobite was glowering back at his ghostly former comrade with equal intensity. "I reckoned you to still be a man of honour. I guess I've got a bad habit of trusting where I ought to know better, but–"

"Do not misrepresent my words to me, Pearce," interrupted the High Priest, his voice an acerbic whisper, but very commanding nonetheless. "I said that she need have no fear, and I have kept my word. She is now a Cenobite, and thus she need never know fear, nor futility, isolation, guilt … resentment," he added, cuttingly, to Pearce's clear discomfort. "Unlike _some_ of us, she is free of her past, no longer imprisoned by her emotions. She will never die, never be purposeless … never be alone. Ask her yourself if you consider my honour so deficient."

"Sarah," Pearce began to ask, very gently. "Are you– ?"

"Do not call her that," cut in the Priestess, but the High Priest signalled her to stand down with another hand gesture. Pearce shot the Priestess an annoyed look, then picked up his thread:

"Sarah, is it true? Do you … feel alright, like?"

"'Do I feel alright?'" she asked, then gave another ripple of hollow, resonant laughter at the sheer naiveté of the question. "Sam, it is unbearable ecstasy. I wish you could experience it yourself, then you'd understand."

"He can, if he wishes," said the High Priest, gravely. "His currently … disadvantaged condition can be remedied. I myself have come back from the dead, so to speak. I believe, though, I would need to see a more positive show of his loyalty before I make any commitments on that score. Or perhaps he does _not_ wish it. Is that the case, Pearce? After our objective is achieved, would you sooner return to your endless nightmare of the past, or to oblivion? Or would you prefer to join your new friend in _this_ life, of which she herself speaks so highly? It is your decision."

"Well … I guess that is kind of hard to argue with, sir … Lord High Priest," Pearce corrected himself, while humbly taking a knee before the lead Cenobite. _Good. I do not think the High Priest cares to be reminded of his mortal past, his time of weakness, any more than I would._ "I've known 'nothing' for so long, I ain't about to turn my nose up at 'something.' I'm your man … but what is it that you need of me now?"

"Of you, and of our newest acolyte, in point of fact," answered the High Priest, more graciously. "Your old friends Sapphire and Steel are already becoming troublesome. We deem they have had ample time to solve the Configuration, yet no intrusions have been reported from anywhere in the Labyrinth. That means either that they have given up – most unlikely – or that they have completely mastered the Configuration, or that they have some other means of entering this dimension undetected. Whichever is the case, it would be less than hospitable of us if we did not arrange an amicable welcome for them … after a fashion."

* * *

 _Special acknowledgement to VampireQueenAkasha, whose story "Hellraiser: Beyond the Gates of Hell" (on this site) was a big inspiration for this chapter.  
_


	4. Chapter 4 - Time to Play

**CHAPTER 4 - TIME TO PLAY**

 _There may be pleasures in hell (God shield us from them).  
_

C. S. Lewis.

* * *

The puzzle box vibrated in the Brigadier's hands, faintly but eerily, and it seemed to radiate an inner warmth since they had arrived in its home dimension, _like a living thing, or a live bomb, which is how it makes me feel._ While they had been tempted to leave it at their point of entry, there were too many good reasons to have it on them at all times, not the least of them being that it was their ticket out of this dimension. Also, as Silver had explained, since it was too complex a device to be a mere security key it probably also served many other functions, any of which might prove useful, or even essential to them. _Yes, all very good logic,_ thought the Brigadier, sceptically, _but it's not helping me to shake the feeling that we've brought our own worst enemy along with us. Let's hope that really is just a feeling, and not a survival instinct I ought to be obeying religiously._

Their dimensional crossing had gone smoothly enough, although as slowly as Silver had warned them it would. The Cenobites' domain, however, did nothing to keep up their morale: seemingly endless stretches of desolate, crumbling stone corridors, lit only by a sickly blue phosphorescence, its crypt-like atmosphere occasionally enlivened by gusts of chilly, acrid-smelling wind which carried the faint echoes of screams, moans, and insane laughter to their ears. _Not to complain, though. Silver's calculations got us in discreetly, at any rate. My new friends have some extraordinary powers, but our best hope is still in getting the drop on these Cenobites._ In the interests of keeping that advantage of surprise for as long as possible, Silver was in the front of their party, scanning their route ahead with a small proximity sensor he had cobbled together from the Brigadier's wristwatch and some pocket change. Although they had passed a few metal objects since their arrival – mainly broken and discarded knives, and rusty chain-links – Silver had been adamantly against using them to synthesise more equipment. If, as he suspected from his studies of the box, everything in this labyrinthine world was connected at a fundamental level, any matter they had not brought with them might potentially betray them. _Or perhaps he'd just rather not touch any of that stuff, for which one could hardly blame him._ They had been exploring for almost two hours without incident, when the glass face of the jury-rigged detector lit up and the watch hands suddenly spun around to new positions.

"Contact … on a bearing of twenty-two degrees," announced Silver, quietly, as they drew to a halt. Steel immediately walked ahead to join him, but from his perplexed, frustrated expression, it was clear that he could derive nothing from their improvised radar.

"How far away?" asked Steel, having given up the attempt.

"Right at the edge of the sensor's range, of course. That's four hundred metres, give or take."

"Human?" asked the Brigadier, hopefully.

"Err, possibly," replied Silver, sounding far less than confident.

"'Possibly?'" repeated Steel, with vexed emphasis. "What's that supposed– ?"

"Well, if you mean is it a normal human or a Cenobite, Steel, then how would I know? Assuming their neurological rhythms to be broadly the same as an unaltered human being's–"

"Neurological rhythms? That's what your sensor detects? Then why didn't you set it to detect specifically human life-signs? Sapphire said that the Cenobites must be dead, at least in the metabolic sense. You ought to have–"

"Oh, so you don't _want_ to be alerted when Cenobites do come into our vicinity, then?" interrupted Silver, incisively. "My apologies, only I thought that might be rather a useful piece of information to have in the interests of not getting ambushed, impaled, flayed, and so forth."

"You're supposed to be our best technician, aren't you? Couldn't you have made the thing multi-functional?"

"I'm a scientist, not an alchemist. I did the best I could with what was available. If I had more or better materials to work with–"

"Then you'll just have to use some of the local materials."

" _Not_ a good idea, Steel, as I already–"

"Why not? Isn't it alarmist to assume– ?"

" _Because_ , Steel, there is a very distinct possibility that this entire realm and everything in it is more akin to a sort of multidimensional mathematical projection than matter and energy in any real sense. A solid projection, I grant you, but still unstable and untrustworthy. The more we interfere with it, the more likely it is we'll catch the attention of whatever it is that's creating said projection, and I'm not at all sure that's something we _want_ to meet."

"If I might suggest something," cut in the Brigadier, quickly and insistently. _Refreshing as it is to be reminded that super-intelligent alien life forms can be as quarrelsome as any of us mere mortals, this is not the best timing._ "Why don't I scout ahead and find out who or what it is? That _is_ actually something I'm qualified to do," he added, in deference to Steel's less-than-convinced frown. "I may be getting on a bit, but I do still remember my stealth training, and without wishing to sound maudlin I'm probably the most expendable member of this party."

"Nobody's expendable," said Sapphire, firmly, "and I dislike the idea of splitting up."

"A short recce, that's all. You can all keep as close behind me as you think best, if–"

A new sound came echoing down the corridor, somehow more sinister than the others for its sheer incongruity. It was a high, melodic whistling, and although the actual tune was simple and repetitive – a marching song, intended to be morale-boosting – the slowness and hollow resonance of its delivery gave it an almost funereal air. Its odd familiarity was of no great reassurance. _'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag?' What the dickens … ?_ If the whistling unnerved the Brigadier, however, that was nothing to its effect upon Steel: for a fraction of a second the alien time agent looked almost like a cornered, hunted animal, and although he quickly mastered his anxiety, the look he then turned on Sapphire was positively acerbic.

"And _you_ said the Darkness wasn't involved," he said, sullenly. "So, how would you care to explain _that_?"

"Strictly speaking, Steel, that was Pearce's tune, not the Darkness'," replied Sapphire, endeavouring to be calm and reasonable, although even her beautiful, impassive eyes looked far more perturbed than usual. "Perhaps Pearce _is_ involved, or just as likely the forces here are playing games with us."

"And how would the Cenobites even know about us and Pearce?"

"Sorry, who _is_ this Pearce?" asked the Brigadier. "Not exactly an old friend of yours, I take it?"

"Not exactly, Brigadier," answered Sapphire. "He was a soldier who died in the Great War. We encountered his after-image, haunting that railway station where your friend was abducted."

"I see." _World War One … That's rather too large a coincidence for my money._ "Then he has some connection to Captain Spencer, perhaps?"

"Sorry, who?" asked Sapphire, and the Brigadier could tell from Steel's expression that he was no wiser on this topic than she was.

"Captain Elliot Spencer, British Expeditionary Force, Battle of Passchendaele? Haven't you … ? He disappeared in 1921, reportedly having come into possession of the puzzle box," he explained, as his audience's blank faces persisted. "It was all in the Channard Institute files. UNIT has full copies. I'm, err, a little surprised your agency doesn't."

"It may be we place less value on human intel than we ought to," admitted Sapphire, humbly, with a faint smile that was quickly shed as she turned back to her partner with an intense and serious look: "Steel, this could be significant."

"They could have known each other, you mean?" asked Steel. "Pearce, and this other soldier?"

"Fought in the same unit, perhaps? Maybe he even has some relation to Pearce's death."

"Maybe … but we won't learn much standing here speculating. I think I might borrow _your_ idea, Brigadier," announced Steel, with grim resolve. "I'll take a recce … in the direction of _that_ whistling. You all wait for me here."

"I'm really not sure that's such a good idea, Steel," protested Silver, while Sapphire merely looked appalled. "Has it occurred to you this could be a trap?"

"That was my first thought, which is why I'm going alone."

"We could just ignore it," suggested Sapphire, pointedly. "Not let him manipulate and taunt us this time, if it is Pearce."

"If it _is_ , he owes me an explanation," declared Steel, his resolve having now hardened into suppressed anger. "I had to send an innocent man to his death just to free Pearce and the others from the Darkness. In return, he gave us his word to rest in peace, and what happens? Some poor woman gets lured to that damn railway station and dragged out of reality by a bunch of sadomasochistic reanimated corpses … one of whom, apparently, might very well have been war buddies with Pearce. I don't call _that_ very peaceful."

"Agreed, but why let him call the shots?"

"I don't intend to. If he's prepared to negotiate again, then fair enough, but I won't be drawn into any ambush. That whistling seems to be coming from behind us, about two hundred degrees, give or take. Is your sensor picking up anything from there, Silver?"

"No, and in case you were wondering, this doesn't detect ghosts … but just because there are no Cenobites there, that hardly makes it safe," pointed out the technician, sceptically. "Your reports said that this Pearce was capable of some disturbingly convincing illusions."

"Right, _illusions_ , all of which I survived, and which I now know to expect. In the meantime, I don't expect illusions are all that Miss Smith has to worry about," Steel reminded them, his hard tone cut through with a note of genuine concern, which the Brigadier more than empathised with. "We're as good as wandering blind here, anyway. Someone _has_ to investigate this."

"I'll come with–" the Brigadier began to offer, but Steel quickly cut him off, albeit with a more considerate tone than usual:

"Thank you, Brigadier, but best if you don't. I know Pearce, and I'm not sure he'd appreciate the military touch. That might even excite his resentment. I'll keep in contact, Sapphire," he declared, turning back to his partner. "In case of prolonged silence, do feel free to come after me … carefully."

"If you insist," replied Sapphire, resignedly, "but Steel … try not to provoke him this time, please."

"I'll be the model of diplomacy," he promised, with just a hint of sarcasm. "You'll be proud of me," saying which, he walked back down the corridor to the first right-hand turning, in pursuit of the eerie marching tune, turned the corner, and was lost to sight. _Brave chap, if a tad prickly. Give him a velvet jacket and a broken dematerialisation circuit, it might be just like old times …_ He had not been gone long when Silver broke the silence again:

"Another contact," he announced. "Not in Steel's direction, you'll be pleased to know. It's on the same bearing and distance as the first contact, which hasn't moved. It might be a changing of the guard, or maybe it's the build-up to the annual meeting of the Cenobites' Trade Union, assuming they–"

His attempted humour was cruelly curtailed by a distant but clearly audible scream. It was long-drawn and shrill, a scream not of impulsive shock but of sustained agony, and although its pitch was perhaps a little lower than he remembered it, Lethbridge-Stewart knew that he had heard that scream before. _Sarah … I'm too late … No._ He started forwards, desperately, but was detained by Sapphire's remarkably strong hand on his arm.

"Brigadier, what are you– ?" she began to ask, but he was in no mood for pleasantries.

"That's _Sarah's_ voice. I have to go, _now_."

"We'll come with–"

"No! Silver was right: this _is_ a trap. They're trying to draw us out, split us up," _but they're doing it by torturing a friend of mine, and if falling for said trap is all I can do to stop that, then so be it._ "You two should find Steel again. You'd better take this," he added, while handing Sapphire the puzzle box. "I don't know that _I'm_ of much use to them, but that might be. Come for us later, if you can … if you deem it wise."

"We will," said Sapphire, simply and resolutely, as she released his arm. He nodded thanks, and rushed off down the stone passageway in the direction of the persistent screaming, taking turnings where they seemed appropriate, and at one point stopping just long enough to retrieve an old, chipped, bloody, but serviceable dagger from the floor. It was not much longer before he passed through a doorway and into a room of indeterminate size, and the screaming suddenly stopped. He looked around frantically, but the room seemed to have been designed to confuse and torment the eyes. Its walls were lost in deep gloom, and long chains hung thickly from the ceiling like black, hook-tipped vines. Here and there, between the chains, thick wooden monoliths slowly rotated, their rough sides spattered with blood and 'decorated' with barbed wire, more hooks and chains, and occasional detached body-parts. _Sarah … Please, no._ He advanced into the room, his crude weapon at the ready, looking around to catch a sign of his friend, when suddenly he heard a voice from close behind him, familiar but ineffably wrong, with a hollow, distorted pitch, and a cloying sensuality that it had never possessed before:

" _There_ you are, Brigadier. I'm so glad you came alone." Sighing, and letting the dagger fall from his hands, _as if I'd ever use it against her, whatever's happened,_ he turned to face Sarah. In spite of being prepared for a ghastly sight, he could not help but be taken aback in horror. She was barely recognisable, with her corpse-like pallor; her hair, teeth, and eyes all missing, replaced by sinister black crystals; and her clinging, shimmering black clothing, more like some parasitic alien skin that had grown on her body. His disgusted reaction was not lost on her, as the bland, sharp-toothed smile she had initially worn instantly fell, leaving a confused, almost hurt expression. Suddenly, foolish as it was, he felt unchivalrous. "What's the matter? Aren't you pleased to see me? I'm pleased to see _you_."

"I'm sorry," he declared, remorsefully. "Sorry I didn't get here sooner."

" _I'm_ not," she declared, her eerie smile suddenly returning. "I think your timing was perfect, Brigadier. You got here just in time to meet my new commander, and I know that he'd love to meet you too," saying which, she raised one of her pale, black-taloned hands and pointed through the forest of chains. Lethbridge-Stewart followed her indication, and a saw a tall, obscure figure advancing through the shadows towards them, slowly acquiring detail the closer he came: long, black robes; an elaborate 'crown' of scars and piercings; and a cold, haughty face that, in spite of its mutilations, was strangely familiar. _Of course: the Channard files. I doubt that information's going to be of much help to me now, but one can but try._

"You seem dissatisfied at your reception, Brigadier," the senior Cenobite greeted him, in a calm, superior voice full of veiled threat. "I cannot imagine why. Since you come sneaking into my realm like some thief or assassin, I have been remarkably tolerant … thus far, but do not push me. In spite of your less than honourable conduct, I am minded to be lenient."

"Yes, well … on the subject of honour, Captain Spencer, I'd hardly have expected a decorated veteran of Passchendaele to resort to kidnapping and torturing an innocent woman," he could not keep himself from remarking, although he immediately wished that he had kept a better rein on his indignation: the Cenobite lord's detached expression contorted in fury; he raised a hand in a quick, violent gesture, and suddenly two of the idly swinging chains came to life, coiling like icy-cold serpents around the Brigadier's wrists and hauling him so far up that he could barely touch the ground with his toes, like some condemned inmate in a Japanese POW camp. Another chain then coiled around his neck, not tight enough to strangle him, but just enough to painfully restrict his breathing while making it abundantly clear that things could easily get worse. In spite of the pain, he managed to repress the urge to scream, but he doubted that his eyes maintained perfect composure as his captor approached to within mere centimetres of him, now wearing a warped, sadistic leer.

"Knowledge _is_ power, Brigadier, I do not deny," hissed the Cenobite, "but it is not always wisdom to share it, so here is fair warning: use that name again, or show me any other disrespect, and I shall flay you inch by inch … from the inside. Although the effort it cost to bring you here was not negligible, you are far from indispensable, and there are many others who would serve my purpose as well, so do not presume on my leniency."

"I am sure, my Lord High Priest, that the disrespect was unintentional," pleaded the Sarah-bite, moving the Brigadier and making him feel even more unchivalrous. _Conditioned and mutated, but Sarah nonetheless, and loyal to her friends. I should have known as much._ "The Brigadier is, above all else, a soldier, and he probably thought that was a mark of respect … rather than a grave slight which I'm sure he will not repeat," she added, quickly meeting Lethbridge-Stewart's eyes with a glance of warning. "Nor does he yet know what an honour and a pleasure it is for me to serve Leviathan, with all my flesh and spirit. When he does … when he too is one of us, I have no doubt that you will find him the most dutiful of servants." _On reflection, a little less loyalty to her friends might actually have been preferable, if this is how she interprets it._ Impossible though it was for the Brigadier to feel much gratitude at this turn of events, this appeal had its effect: the High Priest's expression softened as much as it was in any danger of ever doing, he reached a hand around to Sarah's exposed back, and he caressed one of her ornately-carved open wounds with his fingertips, causing her to emit a sound that was part moan, part whimper, and part bestial purr. _I've no idea what to call it, really, but I do wish he'd stop while I can still hold the contents of my stomach._

"You are a fortunate man, Brigadier," announced the High Priest, his tone again proud and cold, but free of rage, "to have so lovely an advocate to plead your case. For her sake, then." He made another rapid hand gesture, whereupon the chain around Lethbridge-Stewart's neck uncoiled and retracted, the chains around his wrists slackened somewhat, new chains fastened themselves around his ankles, and the floor beneath him rose up to form a long stone bench, leaving him prostrate and manacled, but at least in a lot less pain. _Not, I suspect, for very long, though._ "As a further mark of regard to you both, instead of giving you to the Engineers, I shall allow your dear friend here to carry out your initiation. She may lack experience, but I daresay you will appreciate the personal touch."

"My Lord … I am honoured, but I'm really not sure I'm qualified," admitted Sarah, meekly. _Well, heaven forbid I should be a black mark on her professional CV._

"I have assigned Dreamer to help you. She has … _some_ experience in field Cenobite creation … at least at the theoretical level," replied the High Priest, with a quick and unpleasant aside glance to the Brigadier. As if to emphasise the point, another Cenobite emerged from out of the gloom: another woman, with a horribly gashed neck, flayed forearms, a leather-and-fishnet outfit barely worthy of the name, and a heavy wooden rack that she was wheeling along with her. The contents of this rack, which she parked near the Brigadier's stone bench, included a sinister arsenal of blades and saws, coils of metal wire, dubious-looking garments of black and shiny fabrics, and several bottles, some empty and some filled with a luminous blue chemical. "See? She is here already, eager to give our new acolyte his well-deserved induction. Now, if you will all excuse me, I really should check on our other guests. I fully expected that your elemental friends would not be so easily enticed as you, Brigadier, but perhaps Pearce has had better fortune with them. At any rate, acquiring you was the main priority. We can deal with the others at our leisure."

"Should I feel flattered at that?" asked Lethbridge-Stewart, his tone ironic and repulsed, in spite of the High Priest's threats. _A decorated war hero, and one of my best friends, both degraded to this, and me next, if I survive … which seems mercifully unlikely, all told._ "Or may I take it that your interest in Miss Smith and myself has more to do with wanting revenge on a friend of ours?" A spark of anger again flashed in the High Priest's eyes, and the Brigadier briefly suspected that he had signed his own death warrant – not without some relief – but the Cenobite lord quickly mastered the emotion and settled for merely looming over the stone slab, glaring daggers at his captive while answering his questions in an icy, bitter tone:

"You should indeed … and I am not so petty as to crave revenge. The Doctor _owes_ me. In 1917, Private Pearce and I were stationed on a section of the Western Front commanded by a certain General Smythe … or so we thought," he explained, while Dreamer sharpened some knives and Sarah took measurements of the Brigadier's manacled limbs with a metal slide rule. _Just like a visit to the tailor, in some god-awful penny dreadful._ "In actual fact, we and many others had been taken out of our proper time and place, and hypnotised to fight in a mere facsimile of the War – albeit a lethal one – as part of some alien experiment. Did you know any of this?"

"Some," he replied, recalling conversations he had had with the Doctor many years ago, about the circumstances that had led to his exile on Earth. _He had to call in the Time Lords to fix the damage, and so they did … after arresting him and forcing him to regenerate, of course. That's curious, though: he told me they'd wiped everyone's memories of that incident._ "But weren't you all saved, sent back to your own times?"

"You consider those terms synonymous? Yes, we were sent back … to the true, man-made hell of Ypres in 1917, where Pearce died and I irrevocably lost my mind and, eventually, my humanity. 'Saved' is not the first word I would have chosen."

"I sympathise, but the Doctor had no choice. He was forbidden to change history."

"Except, one gathers, as and when it took his fancy? But no matter. Destiny and your alien friend chose this role for me, and it is my clear duty to fulfil it to the best of my ability. Our Labyrinth, alas, has fallen on hard times. Existing as it does in parallel with your decadent world and age, it is forced to share in their decline, but the Time Lord's knowledge would obviate that problem. We could place Lament Configurations throughout time and space, thus vastly extending our hunting range for worthy disciples and willing victims."

"If you imagine he'll agree to _that_ for the sake of restoring a mere two people to humanity, however close he may be to them–"

"Again, you err. Even were that possible, I would not do you and the young lady such a disservice. She will remain as she is, and you as you are to imminently become, but others will follow in your footsteps, and they will be most welcome. If I cannot have the Time Lord's secrets, I shall settle for his companions instead. Let us at least do him the credit of acknowledging that he chose you all well. Your loyalty to each other will lead more of you to brave this journey, and eventually the Doctor must take note of it, although I am in no hurry. I shall have his knowledge for my Lord and Master, or I shall claim his human friends one by one, and count myself well repaid either way."

"And Pearce? Might I ask what he's getting out of this monstrous arrangement?"

"Pearce was at first under the impression that the Doctor could be persuaded or threatened to undo the circumstances of his untimely death, but you will no doubt be pleased to hear that I have managed to talk him out of it. For all his resentment, he is as naïve a boy as ever, and was unaware that would cause a catastrophic time paradox. Such chaos serves no-one, so I have persuaded him instead to settle for such resurrection as we can offer him here. Monstrous as I am, you see, I am nothing if not a being of order and responsibility. You may tell that to Sapphire and Steel if you ever see them again … and if your beautiful attendants here leave you with the power of speech," he concluded, with a faint but cruel smirk, before straightening up and marching off into the darkness. When his steps had receded almost to silence, Sarah paused in her work and turned to the Brigadier with a definite air of concern in her mutilated expression, slightly reviving his hopes.

"That was _close_. You really shouldn't provoke him," she urged, his revived hopes diminishing with every sincere, brainwashed word. "If you find his generosity terrifying, just imagine what his wrath can be like. I know you're upset now, afraid. I was … but trust me, Brigadier. Everything will be alright in the end. We can be happy here … or subject to the most extreme pleasures ever devised, at any rate, which is much better."

"Thank you, Sarah. I'll bear that in mind," he replied, morosely, seeing nothing much to gain from trying to break her conditioning. _Even if I could, some chance I'll be able to break the other one's, so I'd just put poor Sarah into an even worse situation. Better to just focus on keeping myself from breaking, if I can._ Sarah gave him a wan smile then withdrew to the torture rack, where she began checking various horrible-looking pieces of equipment off a list while the other Cenobite came over to the stone bench wielding a curved, serrated dagger. He steeled himself for the worst, but as it transpired she merely used it to start destroying the seams of his tweed jacket.

"Hey, lighten up, soldier boy," she advised him, playfully, only managing to reinforce his pessimism. "Sure, this is going to hurt a bit … a lot … Okay, probably worse than anything you've ever felt before unless your hobby was rubbing scorpions in your eyes, but just look on the bright side: when it's all over, you'll be immortal, stronger, way hotter, _and_ , if you're a very good boy, you can have your wicked way with us both."

"I'm a married man, Miss Dreamer," he answered her, in as deadpan a tone as he could force through his extreme distaste. "I don't believe I have a 'wicked way.'" She actually giggled on hearing that, although it was not a particularly heart-warming sound: low, harsh, and voluptuous.

"'I'm a married man, Miss Dreamer,'" she repeated, in what he thought was a risible imitation of his voice, but which she clearly thought hilarious. "Can you believe this guy? Kind of cute, though, like having Jean-Luc Picard on the slab. I'm going to have _fun_ corrupting you."

"I wish you joy of it."

"You're just too precious, soldier boy," she crooned in his ear, before giving his clothing some respite and turning to Sarah. "I can see why you're so fond of him now, Sparkles."

"'Sparkles?'" he repeated, incredulously. " _That's_ her name now?"

"Err, not as such," admitted Dreamer, a little sheepishly. "We don't really have names in the Order. That's just what I call her. Suits her though, doesn't it? Still … I'd count it a favour if you didn't tell Boss Man. He might not care for it."

"No more, I imagine, than he'd care for being called 'Boss Man' … but I can't see what possible advantage it would gain me," he admitted, having derived what little Schadenfreude he could from Dreamer's moment of unease. "My lips are sealed."

"Are you _trying_ to give me ideas? Only kidding. We wouldn't want to lose that adorable accent, would we? The tash'll have to go, though," she added, while ruffling his moustache with the tip of her dagger. "That's just never going to work. For some reason, I can't shake the feeling that you'd look really badass with an eyepatch. Yeah … we could drill one in right around here," she declared, while lightly tracing a sticky red fingertip around the orbit of his left eye. "We'll just need a nice little swatch of leather and some of those pins Boss M– … the High Priest uses for his head, and we're good to go. I know I put a box of them somewhere on that rack. Having any joy finding them, Sparkles?"

"I can find the leather and the needles alright," replied Sarah, with the casual, faintly uncertain tone of someone checking their grocery list, "but I'm having trouble finding these 'ichor siphon' things. There's nothing here that looks anything like the picture on the manifest. Are you definitely sure that you– ?"

"Son of a bitch! I knew I'd left off something. We can't even get started without those. I'll have to go back to the seminary to fetch them. I just hope I don't bump into the High Priest on the way. Lord knows what he'll have to say … He might never punish me again, worse luck."

"There's no need to. I passed an equipment store on the way down here. It's only a quick walk, and there was no-one about. You can finish off the prep work, I'll go and fetch them, and I'll be back here before you know it."

"You're a gem, Sparkles. Feel free to laugh at my lame gag." Sarah waived that option, but she did give Dreamer the nicest, sincerest smile the Brigadier had yet seen on a Cenobite before traipsing off into the chain-festooned darkness. For a moment it seemed almost like old times, his friend the same bright, considerate person he had always known … then he remembered that the matter at hand was torturing him to death and reanimating his mutilated corpse as an indentured servant of evil. _Still, nice to see that she's made friends, even if I can't commend her taste._

"'Ichor siphons' … Dare I ask?" said the Brigadier, with very reluctant curiosity, as Dreamer resumed the demolition of his jacket.

"Oh, they're vital," she answered, seriously. "We try anything major without _those_ , you're dead, plain and simple. You see those bottles on the rack?" she asked, indicating with her dagger. "Before we get stuck into any serious modifications, we need to siphon most of your blood into the empties, and replace it with that blue stuff in the full ones. That stuff's pure liquid energy – Leviathan's 'blood,' if you like – and it'll make you part of Leviathan, just like we all are. That means you'll never die, never get sick, never bleed out … but we have to time it just right, because when there's enough ichor in your bloodstream, we won't even be able to change you any more: anything else we do will just heal up at once. After that, only the big boss himself will be able to alter you. It's a delicate operation, but don't worry. Sure, you're my first real initiate, but I've practised all sorts of mods and techniques on test victims, and you know you can trust Sparkles not to want to make a fuck-up of this. You're in safe hands," she declared, casting aside the remnants of his jacket and setting to work on his Brendon School tie.

"Very reassuring," he replied, listlessly. "I'll try to derive some comfort from that." Dreamer sighed, and drew back from her work to look him full in the face, her black-eyed expression unusually earnest.

"Okay, here's the thing," she explained, matter-of-factly. "Sure, you can be stubborn, resist us with all of your will, probably have your mind broken every which way in the process, your memory and personality buried under a whole heap of trauma. That's happened to more than a few. Even the High Priest, or so they say, before someone jogged his memory. How does that sound?"

"Honestly, Miss Dreamer? Somewhat relieving." _God knows, it wouldn't be the first time I had to live in a mental fog to cope with trauma. Small chance the Doctor will rescue me again, but a limbo of blissful ignorance sounds better than a conscious hell._ "I'm certainly struggling to see any reason why I should just bow down and accept the situation."

"Then let me remind you of one: how do you think poor Sparkles is going to like seeing you reduced to a zombie? Maybe that'll even make her wish that she was less human too, just another obedient flesh puppet going through the motions," she conjectured, and he had to inwardly concede that it was a horrifying thought. _Sarah's holding onto something of herself, but if she finds herself responsible for totally destroying an old friend, that might indeed be the death of her as a person. Could I really do that to her?_ "Anyway, Brigadier, it's your call, but when all's said and done you've got a good friend here, and that's a lot more than some initiates can say. Maybe you can try being more flexible for _her_ sake, if not your own? Just a notion."

 _Damn you,_ thought Lethbridge-Stewart, resignedly, as she set to work on his shirt buttons.

* * *

 _Damn you,_ thought Steel, as he glared at the blank, solid wall in front of him, that had not been there when he had taken this corridor in the opposite direction.

He had fully expected that Pearce would resort to tricks, so had not been at all surprised when the phantom whistling, which had at first seemed so close and steady, seemed to change both its location and its distance for every corner or the Labyrinth he had taken. However, he had made certain to memorise his route, and when he was quite satisfied that Pearce was merely trying to disorient him and make him lose his bearings, he gave up the pursuit and retraced his footsteps. He had not retraced them far before being confronted with this wall of ancient, weathered, mildewed stone that had not been there two minutes before. _What was it Silver was telling us about this place? A 'multidimensional mathematical projection,' unstable … and untrustworthy. Maybe I'll learn to actually listen to the experts in the future._ The whistling continued, although with a more leisurely air than before, making it sound to him both taunting and triumphant. He did his best to block it out, and concentrated on trying to make contact with his partner, in the hope that she might be able to help him navigate an alternative route back to the others:

 _Sapphire? Are you– ?_

 _Steel …_ her voice came back to him, but strangely weak, and with an undertone of fear. _You were right … We've been played … Silver … Stop …_ and that was all, her voice fading out altogether, in token of either unconsciousness or death. From that point, order and caution were abandoned as Steel ran pell-mell through the corridors, taking turnings almost at random and effortlessly ignoring the whistling in his desperation to find any route that might take him closer to Sapphire. His haste soon brought him into an area of the Labyrinth that momentarily bewildered him. The floor was, as it had been, a narrow walkway of stone slabs, but it now seemed to be open to a sky overcast with blue-tinted, lightning-flecked clouds, and the walls had also changed. The wall to his left seemed to have mutated into a structure of mundane bricks, varied here and there with rotten wooden doors, peeling advertising posters, and rusty gas lamps, while the wall to his right had been replaced by a long, black ditch. Peering over the edge of this, he saw the glint of metal from a short distance below. _Metal rails … and wooden ties,_ he realised, cynically. _Sam Pearce, you're as devious a bastard as ever, but if you've hurt Sapphire then I may actually make a point of freezing you out of existence this time._

"You should have left well alone, Steel," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned away from the railway tracks and saw Pearce standing in the middle of the platform, exactly as he remembered him: the same ill-fitting battle-dress; the same Lee Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder; and the same cold, bitter expression on his pale young face. "There weren't no need for you to come here. The captain and I just wanted what's owed us."

"And that includes the woman you abducted?" asked Steel, and drew some little hope in seeing the flicker of pain this wrought on the ghost's expression. Sadly, it soon passed.

"Sarah's happy enough," replied Pearce, and unfortunately he seemed to believe it. "She's got a _life_ , anyway, and friends. More than some of us have had. Anyway, this dimension don't harm no-one except those as use the box, and that's their lookout, ain't it? I didn't reckon as it was your business to save everyone from themselves."

"Perhaps not, but if Sapphire's come to any harm–"

"I'd worry more about yourself, Steel. They ain't at all happy with _you_ ," he declared, with a small and joyless smile, while his eyes darted very briefly to the left. Steel followed them, just in time to see a large, black, hook-tipped chain whipping through the air towards his face. He raised his hand to intercept it, which proved acutely painful, but served its purpose: the iron hook snapped on his inhumanly-tough skin, and the chain bounced back to dangle idly over the tracks. As he was flexing his hurt hand and gritting his teeth, a familiar, raspy voice spoke, and he turned to see the gash-throated female Cenobite commander approaching him from the waiting-room door, a blade in each of her hands and an expression of gleeful malice on her gaunt white face.

"Oh, that _is_ interesting," she hissed, with a quick glance at the broken chain. "I don't think that has ever happened before. Are you going to be a challenge for me, alien? I do so enjoy a challenge …"


	5. Chapter 5 - Game of Soldiers

**CHAPTER 5 - GAME OF SOLDIERS  
**

 _Indeed, I do enjoy a challenge,_ thought the Priestess, as she summoned another chain into action. Steel was better-prepared for it this time, actually managing to catch it just above the hook with his right hand, barely a millisecond before it would have made contact with his eye. He pulled on it, managing to snap a large section of it away. _Strong as well as invulnerable, and now he even has a crude weapon,_ she noted, not unadmiringly, as he slowly advanced on her, his improvised whip held ready for any necessary striking. _It will make no difference, of course, but it is certainly entertaining._ She summoned two chains at once this time, attacking him from different sides, but she quickly repented of merely toying with him: swinging his own chain through the air, he managed to intercept them both, and his advance was now bringing him dangerously close. _So be it. Enough games._ Focusing intently, she summoned a whole host of chains, swarming him from every angle. He managed to turn aside a few before one of them entangled with his chain, from which point his fate was sealed: before he could recover his poise, other chains wrapped around his arms and legs, then hauled him into the air, where others wound around his body, constricting him tightly enough to have squeezed the life out of a normal human being. _His resistance is formidable, but his pain is as obvious as it is delicious to behold. He will succumb before much long–_

To her astonishment, the temperature suddenly dropped sharply, and a pale mist seemed to emanate from Steel's cocoon of chains. _What means this? What new trick is he– ?_ That question answered itself in dramatic fashion as the operator suddenly burst free of the chains in a shower of deep-frozen metal shards and ice crystals, landed in a sprawl on the platform, dragged himself rather stiffly to his feet, and advanced upon her with his right hand outstretched, the freezing aura going before him. For a few seconds the Priestess actually panicked, and backed away – not even a Cenobite of her rank and power could survive temperatures low enough to vitrify iron – but she quickly realised how little danger she was actually in, due to the slowness and awkwardness of Steel's gait. _An impressive trick, but it has left him with no agility._ She easily evaded his clumsy advance and then, ignoring the chains for the present, she used her telekinesis to collapse the wooden awning of the facsimile station upon him. _Not as strong as the chains, but it will not freeze as easily, and in his weakened condition it will serve to hold him._ Her intuition proved well-founded, as Steel's debilitated struggles failed to shift the heavy wooden slats, and she could already feel the temperature rising again. _He cannot sustain his little trick for long, then. Soon we can have done with this game. Almost a pity. On neutral ground, he might have proven a deadly adversary, but in Leviathan's realm his chosen ones are all-powerful. Still, it was an amusing encounter, if a somewhat brief one._

"Kind of like old times, ain't it, Steel?" asked Pearce, tauntingly. "I seem to remember I once had you trapped and helpless on a platform just like this one … only this time, I'm sorry to say, there won't be no chance for you to just walk away peacefully. Don't be _too_ worried, though. After you've been for a ride in the Cenobites' machine, you ain't even going to care no more. Sarah didn't. Strange to think we're all going to end up working for the same side after all, but if there's one thing you did teach me it's that sometimes you've just got to take the hand that fate deals you." _What is the witless simpleton on about? Surely even he did not suppose … ? Then he will be sorely disappointed,_ thought the Priestess. Steel had, with intense effort, managed to get his head out from under the awning, and she could tell from his expression that he found Pearce's naiveté almost as bewildering as she did. _Much as I esteem the High Priest, his regard for this insipid wraith is beyond all reason. I could understand with the woman: for all her mortal delusions, she had a mind of sharpened steel and a heart of burning coals. Now freed of her encumbrances, she will make a fine Cenobite, but this callow nonentity? Not for me to question, but I must at least insist that he not be assigned among my novices. He is not fit to lick Dreamer's boots._

"You're a fool, Pearce," she informed him, with curt contempt. "Initiate the alien? If I wished to, I could not. Ruthless as we are – as we pride ourselves in being – there are rules that must be observed, and that is _far_ outside my purview."

"But … Sarah– ?" he objected, weakly, only for her to cut him off impatiently, _and would that he had the flesh for me to do so more literally._

"The woman was a human being, as was I," _to my chagrin._ "A few careless humans are fair game in the cosmic order. Not so _his_ kind. Our Lord would never join his essence to such a one. The risk would be as dire as the repercussions. Our only option is his elimination."

"I never agreed to murder," protested Pearce, horrified. "The High Priest never–"

"You believe he holds you in some special regard? That he would put the integrity of a whole universe at risk for _your_ sake?" she asked, with scornful incredulity, _and let us hope my incredulity is well-founded._ "Beware how you overreach yourself, Pearce. We are your one and only hope for meaningful existence, lest you forget. Unless you wish to be consigned to your nothingness for all eternity, you would do very well not to–"

At this, Pearce's guilty expression hardened into one of bitterness and hate, and the Priestess' body was suddenly racked with even more stabbing pains than normal. Neither of these things would have disturbed her much, but for one detail: there was no element of pleasure in the pain. _Not the fire within that excites, invigorates, and sharpens. Just burning, destroying weakness, leaving me powerless and afraid … No, this cannot be. I have not feared pain for longer than I can remem–_ Before she could get a grip on herself, however, all of her bearings on reality seemed to slip. The false station and the Labyrinth dissolved away, replaced by a desolate, rain-pelted landscape of barren, churned mud, decorated with the burned and shattered corpses of leafless trees, shallow brown pools choked with debris and human remains, and the burned-out husks of British Mark IV tanks that had half-sunk in the mire and fallen easy prey to artillery fire. Memories that had nothing to do with her or even with the human woman she had once been were invading her mind, usurping her whole sense of being. _Ypres … 1917 … That cock-up of an advance on Inverness Copse … No, not my memory … but … ?_ Her battalion had been caught in machine-gun fire from the German positions and routed, and in the confusion she had slipped into the barbed wire entanglement that now held her fast, in agony. _What hope left? There might be a wire detail out before dawn, if I'm lucky … Might find me, cut me free … or maybe just find what's left of me after the next barrage … Then again, they might not come … Could hardly blame 'em … Even the stretcher-bearers won't come out here … Why won't those two help me, though?_ she wondered, resentfully, as she noticed two soldiers a short distance from her: one crawling slowly and painfully out from under some debris, the other merely standing and watching, with a grim, pitiless expression.

"You did … to her … what you did to me … Pearce?" asked the first soldier, his voice as stiff and awkward as his movements, as he hauled himself to his feet. "You made her experience … a memory of your war?"

"Aye, something like that," answered the second soldier, miserably. "It'll keep her down for a while. Probably not as long as it did you, mind. She's _very_ strong."

"I don't doubt it. Better … not hang around, then … Don't get too close, Pearce. I'm … not at absolute zero anymore, but … maybe still cold enough to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" replied Pearce, with a short, ironic laugh. "Probably not very much compared to the pain _they_ were planning to give me, if I'd been a well-behaved little boy. It'll sound weird to say, but they'd almost got me looking forward to it."

"I'm sorry … They had the means … to give you a new life, then?"

"So they said, but obviously not one I'm much cut out for," he declared, resignedly. "Don't matter now, I guess. If you're up to moving, let's find your friends and get you all out of here."

"And you?" asked the weakened soldier, with concern.

"Me? The very worst this lot can do to me is _nothing_ , which I expect they will. Can't say as I'm thrilled by it, but I _am_ used to it. Don't worry about me. Let's just get you back to Sapphire."

"Sapphire," repeated the first soldier, with a sudden air of urgency and accusation. "I tried to call for help … but she went silent on me … What have you done to– ?"

"Nothing, Steel, I swear. I haven't even seen her. If she didn't come with you, then I don't know where … but we'll find her, anyway. Come on, now. Like you said, best to move while the going's good, before our friend here comes to her senses. You might have noticed, she ain't the forgiving type."

On which note, and with final, unsympathetic glances in her direction, the two of them trudged away through the mud. _They're just going to leave me here to die? Pair of crazy bastards …_ She tried shouting after them, but her voice came out weak and raspy, all but inaudible in the torrential downpour of no man's land, through which they were soon lost to sight. _No chance they'll hear now, but what the hell's the matter with me? Did I breathe in some poison gas, or has this fucking wire done me even worse harm that I thought? I sound like it's torn my throat half open._ Curiously, that thought seemed to lift her mood, for some inexplicable reason. _If I could just put my finger on it …_

* * *

The novice Cenobite formerly known as Sarah Jane Smith was rummaging diligently through the equipment store. It had not taken her long to locate the ichor siphons, but in the process of finding them she had seen all sorts of other things that might come in handy for the Brigadier's initiation. _That box of skin clamps would be good, some more pins, not to mention another few reels of the heavy-duty suture. I may not be much good with a knife yet, but I do know my way around a needle, and I noticed all sorts of stitching and lifting techniques in the manual that we could try out._ While the ichor by itself would grant Lethbridge-Stewart such strength and sensory acuity as he had never known, even in his youth – the better to appreciate the sublime pains and pleasures in store for him – and it would halt any further ageing, it would not undo his existing signs of ageing. _A judicious nip and tuck here and there, on the other hand, or perhaps some extreme ones._ She had seen many such striking designs among her comrades, some with excess skin pulled and stitched over their faces in abstract patterns, or instead pulled so taut that their faces lost all natural texture and became smooth and simplistic masks, given new character by artistically-carved scars. _The possibilities are endless, but whatever we choose, he'll be so beautiful and terrible to behold when we've finished. Afraid as he is now, he'll be pleased in the end … though not as much as I'll be._

When she had first learned that the plan was no longer to keep the Brigadier as a hostage but to initiate him at once, it had – to her shame – troubled her, and she had taken the few minutes she could spare to pray to her Lord for guidance. She had been prepared to face the risk of a harsh rebuke, or a severe punishment, or even – Leviathan forbid – the undoing of her own initiation. She had half-expected that her god would try to overcome her qualms by showing her the sins of which, in spite of her love for him, she knew that her friend was guilty: the troops he had killed during the Korean War and elsewhere, before his UNIT days; the long neglect of his daughter; the mass murder of the Silurians, of course. As it turned out, Leviathan did none of these things. He simply showed her what the future held for the Brigadier if he did not become a Cenobite.

 _Immortality, but in a body that can feel nothing: no pleasure, no pain, perhaps for all eternity._ Shuddering at the thought, the novice twisted one of the hooks embedded in her neck to give herself a nice, steadying jolt. _Almost as horrible a fate as Sam Pearce's … Actually, worse, as we won't even be able to help him then. I could never let that happen to him. No, this is so much better. He'll understand it all very soon._ Feeling completely reassured and committed, she gathered her precious findings into a leather bag and left the storeroom.

Her upbeat mood did not last: as she stepped out into the corridor, she was confronted by a figure who completely disconcerted her, neither human nor Cenobite, _but what, then?_ At first glance, he seemed a handsome, auburn-haired man of around forty, wearing an immaculate pale grey suit, but two things gave him an area of extraordinary menace. One was his demeanour, so blank, dead, and devoid of mannerisms that it made that of the Priestess seem positively frivolous by comparison. The second was his black eyes: not merely black-irised like those of her comrades; nor glittering crystals like her own; but solid, swollen, matt-black orbs that could almost have passed for gaping holes in his face. His right hand was empty, and in his left he held a Lament Configuration box. The novice immediately sensed the danger she was in, but she was unarmed, _which is kind of ironic, seeing as I just walked out of a room full of bladed weapons with a large sewing kit. Perhaps a little backtracking might be in order._ She took a small step back in the direction of the storeroom, but it did not go unnoticed, as the man lashed out with his free hand, quicker than she would have imagined possible, and seized her by the right wrist. His grip was far stronger than a human being's or even a Cenobite's, and keenly painful, but any pleasure that gave her was mitigated by the knowledge that it was not intentional, and also by the fact that he was holding her rigidly at arm's length, out of range for her to reach his face with the obsidian claws of her free hand. Nevertheless, she made a few spirited, if futile attempts at it.

"It advises you not to attempt that," said the man, his voice cold and toneless, and with a harsh, scratchy, metallic echo that did not even seem to match his words. If anything, it reminded the novice of the eerie crackling, whispering sounds that had accompanied the anti-matter creature which she and the Doctor had encountered on Zeta Minor, _which nearly reduced us all to freeze-dried husks._ "It can easily destroy you if you provoke it."

"'It?' What do you … ? Who are you?" she settled for asking, but feared she had chosen the wrong question in her desperation, as the man's answer was nothing if not confusing:

"I am Silver, but that is unimportant. It requires your submission."

"What does?"

"The force that has commandeered my identity. They call it the Darkness, but that too is unimportant. It has gone to great lengths to achieve this, and it will not tolerate obstruction. You will escort it to the power centre of this domain."

"To Leviathan?" _The invading aliens, the elements,_ she realised. _He must be one of them, although I never imagined anything quite so weird, nor dangerous._ Her eyes again lighted upon the puzzle box in his left hand, and everything suddenly seemed horribly clear. _They have advanced knowledge. He must intend to attack Leviathan, or even attempt to control him. My Lord, my liberator, my cruel lover, my sweet tormentor … destroyed or enslaved. All of my friends here, linked to Leviathan' s fate … Sam, the Priestess, Dreamer, even the Brig … I may only be a novice, but sod that for a game of soldiers,_ she decided, forcing back all of her shameful mortal fears and focusing intently on the glorious sense of power she had felt in the creation chamber.

To her astonishment and her not inconsiderable pride, she managed to conjure a single black chain from the surrounding shadows, and propel it hook-first into the right side of her adversary's face, causing him a severe laceration and scattering blood all over the flagstones. Unfortunately, this won her no advantage: without even showing any sign of pain, the stranger flung her away from him, sending her first into a tumble and then into a sprawl. By the time the novice had regained her feet, he was holding the Lament Configuration between both of his hands, while his fingers and thumbs manipulated its complex meridians with such skill and confidence that it would not have shamed even the High Priest. She made a final, desperate attempt to dash at him and seize the box, but too late: its central axis slid upwards into a golden cylinder, from which blue bolts of incandescent plasma flew out to consume her. For a few moments, an intense and completely unenjoyable pain seized her, along with a sense of stifling weakness, and then everything went mercifully black and silent.

* * *

The Brigadier's clothes were in almost as many tatters as his morale when the High Priest returned to the torture chamber, supporting another of his kind: a pale, cadaverous Cenobite woman in long black robes, who seemed to be either injured or weakened, _and since one can assume having her throat wired permanently open doesn't inconvenience her, that's distinctly interesting,_ he thought. _At least they're not invincible, then, for all the good that does me now._ Dreamer, who had been leafing through an illustrated manual of mutilation techniques for more inspiration, laid the book aside on catching sight of her superiors and stood respectfully to attention, but the High Priest seemed to be in no mood for formalities.

"Release him," he ordered, his voice as curt and contemptuous as the gesture he made towards the prisoner. "You will be pleased to know, Brigadier, that you have reacquired hostage value. Your initiation is accordingly _suspended_."

"That was as much as I'd dared hope for," replied Lethbridge-Stewart, apathetically, while Dreamer unfastened his manacles, then an idea occurred to him which lifted his mood by the tiniest degree. _Something's got them worried. I wonder … They do say to be careful what you wish for._ "Is the Doctor here?"

"Alas, no, so you may continue abandoning all hope. Pearce has simply betrayed me … betrayed us, and has defected to your new alien friends. Incidentally," he asked, suspiciously, "where has our newest novice gotten to?"

" _She_ wouldn't defect," protested Dreamer. "She just went to get a few extra tools, is all. Leviathan chose her himself. She'd never betray–"

"I did not mean to imply otherwise, child. However, a new initiate, barely experienced in her powers, wandering the Labyrinth alone while hostile aliens and traitorous spirits are at large … It invites grim speculation. How long has she been gone?"

"A few minutes … Longer than I thought she'd be," admitted Dreamer, anxiously, before turning a distinctly nasty stare upon the Brigadier. "If your friends have gone and hurt my Sparkles, soldier boy–"

"Do you wish me to spare your embarrassment, Dreamer, and feign deafness?"

"Screw my embarrassment … Lord High Priest," she hastily added, "but we're not going to let them get away with that, are we? If we just let them attack one of Leviathan's chosen, aren't we as good as giving him the middle finger ourselves?"

"Agreed," said the weakened female Cenobite, as she tentatively released herself from the High Priest's supportive grip and stood upright, with determined if sluggish movements. "These interlopers have made fools of us for long enough. We should hunt them down and tear them all asunder, starting with _him_ ," she announced, her black eyes shooting venom at the Brigadier.

"He would construe that as a mercy," pointed out the High Priest, while walking to the equipment rack. "At present, he may have some value as a human shield. Later, when all is secure again, I shall derive great pleasure from twisting him into everything that he hates … and forcing him to enjoy it. Now, put this on," he ordered, taking a garment from the rack and hurling it unceremoniously at the Brigadier. It was a long black robe with a front fastening of straps and buckles, a bit like an army greatcoat but uncomfortably cinched at the waist, and with a horrible cold, clammy, rubbery texture. _Fashion by Auton plastics,_ he thought, cynically, as he donned the thing. _If I'm very lucky, maybe it'll come to life and smother me._ His dignity thus barely restored, they ventured out into the Labyrinth, the High Priest in the lead and the Brigadier following, with the women's daggers right behind him.

Their march took them through several corridors, up a few flights of stairs, and eventually out onto an area of high, open walkways. Judging from the endless views of turbulent cloud banks overhead, and of Cyclopean stone architecture below, they were many storeys above ground level, assuming the Labyrinth even had a ground level and did not descend to infinity. A colossal, diamond-shaped monolith commanded the horizon, slowly and stably rotating upon an impossibly thin point. _Leviathan, would you believe?_ Amazing a sight though it was, the Brigadier could not help but note that it seemed more like some kind of construct or machine rather than a god in the classical sense. _Would the Doctor have got on his high horse at this point, reaffirmed his hatred of computers, and refused to talk to it? I'm not entirely sure that would have gone well for him …_ They continued to march along the precipitous walkways, the cold wind stabbing him almost as keenly as he suspected his armed escorts would like to, given sufficient excuse. By various right-angled turns they gradually drew nearer to the great monolith, until it loomed high over them, threatening and awesome, _as if someone had upended the Empire State Building, then stuck another one on top of it for good measure._

Dreamer was the first to notice that they were not alone, calling for their attention as she pointed across the chasm on their left-hand side, to a figure standing on the walkway that lay parallel to theirs. With at least a hundred yards of abyss separating them, there was only so much of the silent, seemingly watchful figure that the Brigadier could discern, but it was clearly no Cenobite. _Grey clothes, for one thing. Decent clothes, at that. Also, a full head of hair. Steel, or Silver? Silver, I suppose,_ he reasoned, as the light glinted off the metallic surfaces of the puzzle box the watcher was holding. _In that case, though, where's Sapphire? I left them together. Surely he wouldn't …_ His instincts were further troubled as the watcher raised the box in both of his hands, holding it out in their direction, almost like an offering, _but not one I'd be in any hurry to accept._

Realising that nothing he said would be well-received by his escorts, the Brigadier quietly tensed for action. Moments later, that effort paid off, as the puzzle box suddenly erupted in a barrage of blue lightning arcs which snaked across the chasm in milliseconds, although not so quickly that he did not have time to throw himself flat upon his face. Perhaps due to the corrupted remnants of his own military instincts, the High Priest managed to do the same, but the two women were not so fortunate: before they could react, they were both engulfed in harsh, electric blue light. Curiously, the first effects of this seemed quite favourable, at least to Lethbridge-Stewart's eyes: for a few moments he saw them in quite a different light, still wearing their strange, savage black 'uniforms,' but in all other respects two normal, attractive-looking human women, young and dark-haired, free of mutilations. _One could almost believe it was doing them some good, but I'll assume from their screaming it isn't._ As their cries faded away, their forms also became vague and ethereal, then dissolved into mere blue clouds, which were pulled back across the chasm and absorbed into the box. The Brigadier chose this moment to climb back to his feet and beat a hasty retreat. _We passed a stairway back there. That might offer an escape-route, at least some cover. Let's just hope the box can't shoot at the same time as it's 'sucking.' Poor girls,_ he thought, in spite of himself, as he veered off the main walkway and down the narrow staircase that ran alongside it. It had no handrail, and it overlooked a seemingly bottomless void, but it also put the stone walkway between him and the firing line of the watcher, for which he was prepared to forgive it almost anything. _Let's just hope Sarah didn't meet with the same fate as–_

A crackle and a scream interrupted his train of thought, then another figure came half-running, half-staggering down the stairway. _The High Priest, I'll assume, but it looks as if he didn't quite dodge that last 'bullet.'_ The Cenobite's body pulsed and crackled with a faint blue aura, sparks dancing across its contours, and his face was contorted with pain or intense effort, as if he was struggling to stave off the non-existence that had claimed his comrades. It was also a lot more readable than usual, as its elaborate 'headdress' of scars and piercings had vanished, leaving the countenance that the Brigadier remembered from the photographs in the Channard files: the pale, thin army officer with the cleft chin and the short, receding dark hair. He had thought Captain Spencer quite a dignified figure in those sepia-toned pictures, with his pristine uniform and proud poise. Now, with his anguished expression and incongruous black robes, he looked sadly diminished and faintly ridiculous. All things considered, it was not a sight that excited any great pity from Lethbridge-Stewart, but since he judged that there was a fair chance the man would stumble into the abyss without his help, and he was not feeling so petty, he ascended the stairway again in order to lend him some support. As he touched him, he felt a strong static charge, but nothing dangerous. _To me, anyway. I'm not so sure for him._ The High Priest managed to raise his head and look the Brigadier full in the face, his now-blue eyes full of desperation.

"What happened?" asked the Brigadier, as he guided the incapacitated Cenobite away from the edge of the abyss and helped him to lean against the wall, his every movement a struggle. "The women: were they killed?" The High Priest actually laughed at this question, although it was a sound evocative of no joy; ironic and laced with contempt.

"'Killed?' You could say …" he answered, his voice weak and strained. "I killed Dreamer myself … and the Priestess has been dead for decades … as have I, but what you just saw … worse than death … reduced to energy, then absorbed … You saw who attacked us … saw his eyes?"

"He was a little far away for that, Captain Spe– … sorry, High Priest," conceded the Brigadier, although only for the sake of politeness. "I could hardly make out his eyes."

"My mistake. I forgot … how dull mortal senses are … but _I_ saw, I know what it is … The dark one, the devourer … devourer of all hate and pain … and I opened the way for it … I endangered my order, my god … been a fool … You must help me, Brigadier."

"Must I?" asked Lethbridge-Stewart, sceptically. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you'll forgive me if I ask is there any reason at all why I– ?"

"Because it's your _duty_ , damn you," snapped the High Priest, his voice recovering a little of its strength and authority. "However you despise … us, it's in the interests of this realm … the cosmic order be maintained, as much … as it is for your world … but _this_ entity cares nothing for order … If you disbelieve me, ask your element friends … In fact, do so without delay … They might stand a chance, if you bring them–" Their attention was seized by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching on the walkway above them, and the High Priest both lowered and quickened his tone in urgency: "Find them at once, or all is lost … including you. No," he added, as the Brigadier attempted to offer him his support again. "I am in no condition to guide you … and it does neither of us any good … you getting sentimental over a man … we both know to be beyond redemption … so go _now_."

With a mixture of reluctance and relief, Lethbridge-Stewart withdrew the offered arm and resumed his course back down the stairway. It terminated in a small landing that led to a narrow, arched doorway, back into the enclosed corridors of the Labyrinth. Before he entered it, he turned back and took a last look at the figure of his adversary, slumped against the stone wall and appearing even weaker than before, ghostly and insubstantial within the blue miasma, although he continued to fight against total dissolution, _which, at this point, is only buying time, for me._ He was surprised to discover that he had actually developed the tiniest iota of respect for the former Captain Spencer, and he could not refrain from throwing him a salute. Painfully, and with evident distaste, the fallen Cenobite returned it, just at the moment Silver appeared at the top of the stairway, this time close enough for the Brigadier to see his eyes: solid black, with a cold malevolence that outdid any Cenobite's. As he raised the puzzle box in his hands, the Brigadier quickly darted down the passageway, shortly followed by the receding harmonies of a violent crackle of energy and the expiring scream of the High Priest. _Well, he did his duty, at any rate. Now for mine._


	6. Chapter 6 - Tempus Moritur

_**CHAPTER 6 - TEMPUS MORITUR  
**_

 _Sapphire!_ Steel's voice resonated in her head. Although it could hardly be said to possess volume, it lacked nothing in force and urgency, and it penetrated her unconsciousness at least as effectively as if he had been shouting it into her ear. _Can you hear me, Sapphire? Are you able to move? We have to–_

 _A moment,_ urged Sapphire, as she began to stir. Her first efforts were feeble and sluggish, not helped by the dull pain that she could still feel in her head where 'Silver' had struck her with the puzzle box, but she fought it back, dragged herself into a sitting position, and opened her eyes. Steel was kneeling beside her, his face less hard and grim than usual, partly softened by concern but also by evident fatigue. _He looks as if he's been through the wars too, speaking of which …_ The sight of Private Pearce standing alongside her partner gave her a very brief start, but the same concern for her was written in his pale, mournful expression. _Another ally, then. I'm not sure he makes up for the two we've lost, but let's be thankful for small mercies._

"Steel, you were right … almost," she clarified, her voice slowly gathering strength. "It _was_ the Darkness … but it didn't come with us. I think it was waiting here … waiting for us to bring it what it needed: the box, and Silver, and we fell for it … as did the Cenobites, and as did you, I'd imagine," she added, for Pearce's benefit, increasing his pained looks.

"Why Silver?" asked Steel, his own voice somewhat stiff and strained, _as if he just had to resort to his absolute zero technique, thus leaving both of us weakened at an extremely critical time. Better and better …_ "If it needed a body, then why not you? After all, you're the one who's …" at which he tailed off, awkwardly.

"'Vulnerable,' were you going to say?" she finished for him, dryly.

"Not exactly … but psychically receptive, shall we say? A natural medium, not to mention it's possessed you before. It knows the territory, so what's Silver got that you haven't?"

"That rather answers itself, doesn't it, Steel? The knowledge and instincts of a master technician, to add to whatever it already knows about this realm, and about the puzzle box. It needed the right tool, and the right expert to operate it, and we dutifully delivered them."

"But why? What could the Darkness want here?"

"I think Silver answered that for us: a parasitic dimension that captures careless humans 'for labour, entertainment, and psychic energy.' _Negative_ psychic energy, we can safely assume: pain, fear, hate, wrath … and resentment."

"And the Darkness thrives off negative energy," said Steel, gravely. "if it plunders this place, it can glut itself on a far greater food source than _I_ tried to palm it off with, or that it was getting from Pearce and his friends. Perhaps an infinite one, if it doesn't just plunder but actually takes control of this dimension. On this occasion, Pearce, it looks as if you were just the unwilling messenger-boy rather than the main course at the banquet … for whatever consolation that is."

"Sod all, if I'm honest," answered the ghost, morosely. "I didn't know it, though, I swear. A fool I may be, but I'd never have knowingly helped that devil again. Not after the way it cheated me and all those others who'd trusted it to give them new lives."

"Yet you must have wondered what brought you here, surely?" asked Sapphire, sceptically. _He has the ring of honesty, but I feel I may be forgiven for being a little hesitant to trust someone who did once try to kill us both, however reluctantly._

"Not really. It all seemed quite natural, at the time," answered Pearce, innocently. "Just what being dead and in limbo's like, I reckoned: one minute you're drifting aimlessly in and out of your worst memories, the next you're haunting somewhere or someone that used to mean something to you, and it made sense I'd be drawn to Captain Spencer … though the stuff I found myself remembering about us both was weird, all right: stuff I'm sure that I'd clean forgotten about, if it was ever real in the first place."

"Memories either created or resurfaced by the Darkness, then, so that you and your friend could do what it needed of you without even knowing," concluded Sapphire, as she hauled herself upright. "I assume your friend _is_ one of the Cenobites, now."

"He's in charge of them, apparently," Steel answered on his behalf. "Pearce was the perfect leverage, but it played us all for fools, engineered the whole thing. The Cenobites thought that _they_ were the ones setting a trap. So did we, and we focused on avoiding it, while–"

"It was the Darkness' trap all along, indeed. Having said that, on the subject of the Cenobites and their trap …" she reflected, while scrutinising Steel's haggard, pale visage with great concern. "You had to freeze, didn't you?"

"Things got a bit hot … figuratively speaking. I didn't sustain it for long, but I won't be trying it again any time soon, I admit."

"Nor much else, by the look of you. You know how it takes it out of you, Steel."

"There didn't seem much else to do at the time, but I can't argue with you there. I'm not likely to be fighting fit again for hours."

"And without Silver or Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart … Much as we specialise in the impossible, one could wish for better odds on the eve of battle."

"I dreaded to ask: what happened to Lethbridge-Stewart?"

"Too much," said a strong, familiar voice, with a faint echo. They turned in its direction, and saw Lethbridge-Stewart approaching them down one of the nearby corridors. Welcome a sight though that was to Sapphire, she was taken aback to notice that he was barefoot, and had somehow exchanged his clothes for a long, black Cenobite robe that did nothing whatsoever for him, _other than sparing him from total embarrassment,_ she thought, noticing that the small cut-outs in the material, presumably to accommodate clamps or piercings, or to display flayed skin, showed only bare, pale, although uninjured skin beneath them. She could tell from their wide-eyed expressions that her companions were equally surprised, and the Brigadier rolled his own eyes before continuing: "Just don't ask, alright? You must be Private Pearce, I assume? I just met your old CO. He told me you're fighting on _our_ side, now. May I dare hope that's true?"

"Aye, sir, for whatever that's worth," answered Pearce, drawing himself instinctively to attention. "How is Captain Spencer?"

"Probably dead … or deader, at any rate, I'm afraid. Silver attacked him … or something possessing Silver's body. A 'dark one,' a 'devourer of hate and pain?' Something along those lines. He mentioned that you two might have some idea what–"

"Yes, it's an old friend," interrupted Steel, with corrosive insincerity. "So, the Darkness has a reputation. A shame the Cenobites couldn't have benefited from their knowledge of it to be more careful."

"To be fair, we've not been the best exemplars of that ourselves," pointed out Sapphire, sadly. "If it's overpowered them already, I can't say I rate our chances highly."

"You were expecting the Cenobites to see the light and help us?" asked Steel, cynically. "No, I think the Darkness made a mistake there: if had been more patient, it could have left us all nicely occupied fighting each other, and helped itself to the energy source in the confusion, but it got greedy. Perhaps that _does_ give us a chance. Can you lead us to it, Brigadier?"

"Just what I was sent back to do … err, if you're feeling up to it, of course."

"We'll have to be. Take us there."

In spite of Steel's determination, Sapphire could not help but find their party – one bodiless wraith, one courageous but fairly elderly and half-naked human, and two battered operators who were struggling to keep pace with either of them – to be rather uninspiring. They proceeded back along the corridor the Brigadier had just come down, and followed his lead at the various junctions and crossroads they encountered, the retired soldier confidently retracing his steps, _which is all very well, assuming we're capable of dealing with whatever we find at the other end of them … not that we have any choice but to try. The Darkness in control of this dimension doesn't bear thinking about._ Her morale was not lifted as she sensed a living but weak human presence in the near vicinity. _Logically, the journalist, or some equally unfortunate victim of the Cenobites. Steady but feeble cardiac and neurological signs. Perhaps severely tortured. Nevertheless …_ She called the group to a halt, and led them down a nearby passage. It was only a short distance before she encountered the source of the life-signs, collapsed and unconscious beside an iron-bound wooden door. _Yes, the journalist, and strange fashion tastes appear to be catching on. I'm starting to wonder if I'm not culturally obliged to transmute this dress into something constricting in blue vinyl, but fortunately we don't have the time or the energy to spare._ Like the Brigadier, Miss Smith had somehow managed to lose her own clothing in favour of a Cenobite garment – some kind of tight-fitting black catsuit that glittered with a silver lamé weave and a myriad of black gemstones – but uncomfortable as it looked, their were no signs of injury nor mutilation on her, _and the suit's incomplete: gaps in the heels, holes in the collar for missing fasteners. Did they intend to convert her and fail to finish the job, or something else?_ She knelt down and gently laid a hand upon the unconscious woman, to obtain a more detailed spot analysis. _The garment is as it appears, incomplete … except it isn't. It was complete, then it was incompleted, time and energy taken back from it … and from her. She was incompleted too, the shock of the energy transfer inducing acute stress reaction and reflex syncope. She can recover from that, physically, at least. The long-term psychological effects will likely be profound._

"It isn't possible," declared the Brigadier, in astonishment. "I saw what they'd done to her. She … she was one of them, _dead_. They'd drained her blood, flayed her, torn out her teeth, her _eyes_ , for God's sake … except …"

"Except?" asked Sapphire.

"Well, this 'Darkness' creature did something like that to the other Cenobites as well, except it absorbed them completely. Why not Sarah?"

"Perhaps because she was still alive in her own dimension when she was taken, and most probably would still have been. If we assume everything here to be a manifestation of the same raw negative energy, time _and_ space, it isn't beyond possibility that she could be restored, that is if her death and mutation were only physical facts in this dimension."

"I see … I think … and what about her memory? Has it erased what happened to her from her mind?" asked the Brigadier, more anxiously than hopefully. "I mean, _I'm_ in no danger of forgetting it, more's the pity, but will she be alright?"

Sapphire laid her hand upon Sarah's head and recommenced the analysis. _Acute dissociation, Stockholm Syndrome, severely impaired ability to differentiate pleasure and pain. Probable outcomes: self-harming, depersonalization disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder … at best. At worst, suicide, or attempting to regain access to this dimension. The best I can do for her is to attempt to repress those memories, and hope that they stay repressed, but not right now. If we don't deal with the immediate threat, then this whole dimension will very likely implode and her prognosis will be neither here nor there._ She concentrated deeply, and generated a simple stasis field around Sarah, causing her to vanish completely. _There. That will keep her safe for now … including from herself. If she was to wake up in her current state, she'd probably go running for 'sanctuary' to the very first Cenobite she saw._

"What have you– ?" the Brigadier began to ask, understandably concerned.

"Simple concealment and protection," explained Sapphire, as she stood upright again, "in case there are any Cenobites around that the Darkness didn't neutralise. She'll be alright," _I hope,_ "as long as we can get that puzzle box back and get her away from here, of course."

"Fine. Then what are we waiting for?" asked the Brigadier, leading the way back from their detour and resuming his previous course, Steel and Pearce close on his heels. With a last, troubled look back at her invisible, traumatised patient, Sapphire followed them.

They proceeded down several more deserted corridors and up a number of stairways, their ascent eventually bringing them out onto the 'roof' of the maze-like complex. While its seemingly infinite expanse of right-angled stone causeways was as tiring on the eye as it was awe-inspiring, the massive structure that rotated at its centre was a great aid to navigation. _Leviathan, one dare assume … but not configured correctly,_ Sapphire realised intuitively, as she stared at the huge, jagged shape, somewhat like the spiked head of a medieval mace. _A stellated polyhedron? That's incorrect. It ought to be … an octahedron, a diamond._ Every now and again, arcs of blue lightning snaked up from the Labyrinth and 'earthed' themselves in its spiked tips, while the area directly beneath it had a vague, blurred, washed-out look, _and it's getting worse, slowly spreading outwards, absorbing structure, energy, space, time. Are we too late already, or can this be undone?_ Looking even more intently, she noticed that there were intricate designs on every face of the polygon, very similar to those on the puzzle box. _An analogue … A control device, perhaps? A means of 'programming' this domain, if only we still had it, or our technician to operate it._

 _Will you accept one out of two, Sapphire?_ asked Silver's voice, managing in spite of its disembodied nature to carry a faintly roguish note, but also a weary and haunted one. She turned to face its bearing, and saw Silver approaching them along an adjoining causeway, his gait fast but unsteady. Afraid that he might stumble on this rather narrow bridge overlooking oblivion, she hurried forwards and lent him a supporting arm. As he met her gaze, she was relieved to see his own blue-grey eyes back to their normal hue, although the look they gave her and the very wan smile that accompanied it were less than uplifting.

"Most considerate … So that's what your job's all about, then?" he asked her, having caught a little more breath. "Having random psychic entities living in your mind, pushing all the buttons … I do believe I'll stick to my toys and gadgets in the future. I couldn't … feel more violated if the local powers that be had done unto me … as they did unto all these luckless 'converts,' heaven forbid … Incidentally, Brigadier, I do believe I might have met your journalist friend while I was under the influence … so to speak, but I'm not certain if she survived."

"She did," replied the Brigadier. "We just found her back there, unconscious."

"Well, good. Let's get her, then, and get out of here while the going's–"

"You've got the box, then?" interrupted Sapphire, hopefully.

"No, the entity made me throw it into the abyss, just before it transferred itself from my body into the monolith. The box must be long gone now, but if we can get back to our entry point, scavenge a few bits and bobs on the way, I daresay I can jury-rig something. It might not be perfect, but as long as you're happy to be a little bit flexible where we emerge from this godforsaken dimension, then I'd say just getting out of it is the main priority, wouldn't– ?"

"And leave the Darkness to sate itself, you mean?" asked Steel, contemptuously. " _You_ might feel comfortable bearing that responsibility, but I can't say that I–"

"We don't owe these people _anything_ , Steel," pointed out Silver, almost matching him for contempt. "May I remind you, their only ambition towards us was to capture us and torture us to death, or worse, as they've presumably done to millions more. We've got the living hostage they took, we're all here, so why should we risk all our lives for their– ?"

"Not for _them_. We've conceded far too much to the Darkness already. If it wins here, who knows where it's going to stop, if ever? With enough power, what's to prevent it from making the whole world into its personal farm of negative energy? As if the human race needed any more help in that field … This needs to stop here."

"I'm open to suggestions, but without the box–"

"What did it make you do with the box, Silver?" asked Sapphire, reasonably.

"It made me reconfigure the monolith, changing its shape, its mode of operation. Now, one could roughly describe it as being in a sort of 'read-write' mode, defenceless, with the Darkness overpowering its host intelligence."

"And if you were to reconfigure it _back_ again," asked Steel, "what would that do? Would the host intelligence recover and expel the Darkness, or even better might it leave it trapped in there, hopefully at its mercy, or lack of?"

"Well, _possibly_ , Steel, but without the box, as I said, I've no way to–"

"So make another one. You copied it before, several times."

" _No_ Steel, I made inert copies of dimensionally stable aspects of it, none of which would serve. Even if I had access to better materials, and had full data of the wretched thing in all of its configurations and dimensional aspects – of which there are probably thousands – one cannot simply copy a dimensionally transcendental object on the spur of the moment."

"There's an alternative," declared Sapphire, somewhat reluctantly: the idea of making a hasty retreat and leaving the Cenobites to their fate was profoundly tempting, _but Steel's right: the Darkness was the real threat, the real cause of this. If by any means we can prevent it, we have a duty to._ "Where did you throw the box away, Silver?"

"Over there," he replied, doubtfully, while indicating back along the route he had just come down, "about half a kilometre from the monolith … and that expanding field of chaos around it, as I trust you've noticed. Expanding slowly at present, although there's no telling if or when it might accelerate, nor even if this whole dimension might not collapse in the blink of–"

"Then let's not waste time. Take us there," ordered Steel. Silver grimaced but obeyed, and led them further into the centre of the upper Labyrinth, where the creeping field of blurred, decomposing space-time seemed all too near. It was progressing at a rate of inches, _perhaps giving us a few minutes at best. Long enough, I can but hope._ Silver stopped, and pointed over the edge of the causeway, at a place where where the many tiers of the Labyrinth seemed to descend into deepening shadow and eventually to complete darkness.

"There," he declared, "but if you're thinking of turning back time–"

"Great minds think alike, Silver," replied Sapphire, more confidently than she felt.

"Yes, well I don't pretend to have one of _those_ ," said the Brigadier, modestly but sceptically, "but mightn't that just leave us in an even worse state of affairs?"

"Just what I was thinking," agreed Silver, pointedly. "Even if Steel was on top form – which I'm sure he'll pardon me for noticing that he _isn't_ – it wouldn't make much difference in a straight fight against that Darkness thing, and the thought of having it in my head again–"

"I didn't mean to turn back time for the whole Labyrinth, nor even a large area," explained Sapphire. "Just for this immediate area where the box fell: enough to retrieve it, then you can reconfigure it again, Silver."

"Now, there's a skill my old friend would have appreciated," said the Brigadier, sincerely impressed, although she could sense that he was still suppressing a sense of doubt. _I know the feeling, but for want of any better ideas, here goes nothing._ Standing at the edge of the precipice, she focused her attention upon the exact area Silver had pointed out, opened her eyes wide, attuned her mind to the local temporal continuum …

Agony racked though her brain, destroying her focus: not some vague, impersonal pain, but the myriad sufferings of thousands of souls self-condemned to the Labyrinth over the centuries, as vividly unique as they were horrible; victims of the Cenobites flayed, burned, broken, dismembered, crushed, and eviscerated, among countless other tortures, and all concentrated into the few seconds it took her to pass out. She felt herself losing her balance …

 _Sapphire! What happened? Wake up, we need to–_

Consciousness returned to her, as did the pain, although thankfully duller and more bearable than before. Also on the plus side, she was not falling headlong into the void, but was resting in Steel's arms, while he looked down upon her with a mixture of concern and urgency. A quick sidelong glance informed her why: the chaos field was less than fifty yards away, visibly bearing down on them. _Stupid … of me,_ she thought, self-reproachfully, although even that was a struggle. _The Darkness … much greater powers … of time control … like before … Blocking me._

 _What would stop it?_ asked Steel. _Distract it, even? We have to think of something, or–_

 _I reckon as I might be able to help you there, sir,_ said a familiar, melancholy voice in both of their heads. In equal surprise, they turned to Pearce, and their surprise was redoubled to see other pale, forlorn-looking figures manifesting out of the air around him, some familiar to them, others unknown: airmen, sailors, more soldiers from different wars and periods, and even a few civilians: a motley army indeed, but Sapphire knew what it was that they had in common.

 _The resentful dead, the unjustly killed,_ she thought. Pearce was using the very same 'talent' that the Darkness had once exploited him for: to commune with and summon other spirits who had shared his unenviable fate. _But for what purpose, unless … ? A sacrifice?_

 _That's right, Sapphire, but don't you go getting all maudlin on us,_ replied Pearce, sadly but resolutely. _We ain't got nothing worth losing. All we've got left is our grievances, but that's enough to tempt that greedy bastard, maybe give you your diversion. Forward march, lads. We can't get back what we've lost, but may be as we can make our deaths count for something after all._

With Pearce at their head, the company of ghosts marched along the causeway, and into the advancing field of chaos, where each of them was almost instantly dissolved into raw energy, and quickly sucked into the spinning polyhedron. _Absorbed by the Darkness, perhaps to be preyed on forever,_ reflected Sapphire, ruefully. Horrible a spectacle although this mass 'suicide' of the dead was to behold, it had its effect: the advancing chaos field slowed down, as did the rate of rotation of the polyhedron, and it even seemed a little less steady on its axis, _almost drunk, or high on negative energy. Pearce, bless him, was correct_ : the embittered ghosts were too tempting a morsel for it to ignore, and probably a far quicker 'fix' of energy than it was getting from slowly 'digesting' Leviathan's domain. _But not one that will last for long,_ Sapphire noted, as nearly half of the ghosts had already marched to their fate. _It's now or never._ Fighting against her lingering pain, she focused and attuned her mind again, until she felt herself one with time, its images, _the past, now my memory. Think back …_ As she reviewed the recent past, she glimpsed the reconfigured puzzle box – now the same shape as Leviathan itself – tumbling down into the abyss. She arrested its fall, and pictured it returning to its starting point. As it ascended to the level of the causeway again, a hand reached out to intercept it, but not that of the possessed Silver: it was Steel's hand, with a motion so swift and determined one would never have guessed at his weakened state. As Sapphire relaxed, or rather collapsed again, sprawling upon the cold stone in her exhaustion, Steel quickly handed the box to Silver, who worked frantically, his fingers dancing across its fine engravings, twisting its points, manipulating its sliding sections, and gradually altering its whole shape into something more reminiscent of the cube it had once been. Meanwhile, the army of ghosts had all vanished into the chaos field, which was now but a few metres away from them and advancing more quickly.

"I don't want to alarm anyone here," said Lethbridge-Stewart, "but shouldn't we put a little distance between ourselves and _that_ before–"

"No!" interrupted Silver, with uncharacteristic curtness, while concentrating fiercely on his task. "Any further from the monolith and we'll be out of control range. Just give me a minute."

"I'm not sure if we've even got–"

With a few deft, although seemingly quite desperate movements, as if he had abandoned scientific precision in favour of last-minute guesswork, Silver twisted and elongated the cube into a diamond-like shape, while the huge, spinning form of Leviathan copied his motions, and the chaos field almost brushed against his feet. Arcs and balls of blue lighting discharged all around them, and then everything flashed a brilliant white …

* * *

 _Several days later …_

The Priestess paced the length of her office impatiently, her mood barely soothed by the melodious screams of the condemned, incarnate spirit chained up in the corner: once some child-molesting occultist – common fare, unworthy of conversion – whom Dreamer was currently attending to by using her leather-gloved hands to slowly and sensuously anoint the lower half of his body with corrosive oils. _That usually relaxes me, but these time agents evidently take as much pleasure in being vexing as I do from my beautiful craft. I suppose I should be grateful, to think how close we came to destruction, but if I did not need this arrangement so much, then–_

 _Did I keep you waiting? I'm so sorry._

The Priestess turned in surprise to the door, and saw Sapphire standing there, wearing a charming, insincere smile. Gritting her teeth to suppress any stronger reaction of anger – _Leviathan forbid I should give this creature the pleasure of provoking me –_ the Priestess marched behind her desk: a heavy, crude structure of unvarnished wood, its surface stained with patches of ink-grade blood, more like a butcher's block than anything a mortal might take for a writing surface. She waved a signal to Dreamer to stop the torture, so that she might not be distracted during this disagreeable but necessary conference. Sapphire glanced in the direction of the burned, blistered, whimpering victim, briefly but with intense distaste. _Good. Then at least I get to repay her in kind for this discomfort._

"Before we discuss our transaction, I would know of my novice," the Priestess began, coldly. In the corner, Dreamer exhaled a faint sigh. _Missing her 'Sparkles?' I wish I could say I did not empathise, in my way. Who are these presumptuous aliens, anyway, to decree what is and is not best for terrestrial souls, be they human or Cenobite?_ "She whom you abducted."

"I believe the operative word is 'liberated,'" replied Sapphire, with airy sarcasm. "She is well, as I'm sure you'll be pleased to know."

"Indeed? We found _this_ outside a storeroom on level six," declared the Priestess, as she held up a loose object that had been draped over her desk: a long, shimmering black garment with gemstones embroidered into it. "You thought it best that she not even retain the merest memento of her time here, is that the idea?"

"That's right. She deserves the chance of a normal life."

"You delude yourself. Sarah will never lead a normal life, whether or not _we_ are involved. It is neither in her nature, nor her destiny. But I think your efforts will be in vain. You may suppress her memories for a time, but not even Leviathan himself is powerful enough to totally erase the traces of the past," _as I know all too well._ "Sooner or later she will remember … and then eagerly return to us, be it in life or death. Will you 'liberate' her then?"

"No," admitted Sapphire, reluctantly. "If she comes here of her own free will – which, and let's be honest, she _didn't_ before, however you choose to spin it – then we have no claim on her. However, I merely said that she deserves the chance. Since we're exchanging gossip, I'd like to know if there's been any news on the Darkness, or of Pearce, or those other poor souls who risked their existence to save your Labyrinth and your order from dissolution," she added, pointedly.

"The High Priest has communed with Leviathan on that matter. From what he has told me, it would seem that as soon as the Darkness realised it had lost control, it expended a large amount of its stolen energy to flee this dimension, like the cowardly parasite it is. You hoped that it was destroyed?" she asked, noting Sapphire's look of disappointment.

"I wasn't wildly optimistic, but still … What of Pearce and the others?"

"We have no information. It is possible they were consumed in its escape, though just as likely they were jettisoned in its haste, in which case they may be wandering the Labyrinth even now. If that is the case, we will find them eventually."

"I see," replied Sapphire, unenthusiastically, and with another glance at the tortured spirit, which the Priestess did not miss the significance of.

"You may set your mind at rest," she said, endeavouring in spite of her distaste to strike a reasonable, neutral tone. "I underestimated Pearce, I freely admit it. I did not credit him with the intelligence nor the courage to act as he did … nor indeed with the courage to attack _me_. Indeed, if we do locate him, I shall insist on being personally responsible for his conversion," _although I make no promises that I will not draw out the pure agony of that ordeal for as long as I can, before I allow him to experience it as pleasure. One ill turn deserves another._ All judicious editing aside, she was not surprised to see that her 'reassurance' did not seem to lift her visitor's mood at all.

"How very kind of you," remarked Sapphire, her tone deadpan. "In that case, I shall dare to hope that they are all at peace."

"As you wish," she replied, scornfully. "May we have done with this trivia? Have you brought what was promised?"

"Yes, under protest, but those were my orders … always assuming you intend to keep up your end of the bargain, of course."

"Of course," confirmed the Priestess, then, using her fingertip, she traced a complex sigil on the side of her desk, which caused a secret compartment to open. She took an ancient parchment scroll from out of it, bearing intricate annotated diagrams of the Lament Configuration – _Lemarchand's original designs … to be entrusted to an outsider_ – and held it out to Sapphire in one hand, while keeping the other outstretched, its palm held upwards. Sapphire reached into her pocket, took out a small, brightly shining crystalline sphere, and approached the desk. As she dropped the object into the Priestess' hand, she took the scroll in her other. Satisfied at this outcome, if less than elated at having to strike such bargains with this infuriating alien, the Priestess stowed her 'payment' within the hidden desk compartment.

"Your technician should count himself privileged," she informed Sapphire, gravely. "We do not, as a rule, suffer outsiders to study the Lament Configuration at their leisure. Any such attempt to cheat us of our dues would usually result in immediate condemnation to the worst punishments we can conceive of. _He_ does not even come close," she added, curtly gesturing towards the snivelling prisoner.

"Really? I understood that without true desire, you have no dues on anyone, and I can assure you that this job will be no pleasure for Silver. In any case, you ought to be grateful for it. I analysed the spatio-temporal pollution caused by your box of tricks in the railway station, and it was absolutely dire. The clean-up will be no insignificant effort for us. In light of that, some of us would have preferred it if we were to simply send the transuranic elements here in full force, and put a stop to you and your whole operation, but less warlike voices prevailed, you'll no doubt be pleased to know."

"Do not presume to threaten–"

"I do apologise. I thought threats and pain were social niceties here … but anyway, Silver is confident he can come up with improvements for the box, make the dimensional interface more stable, eliminate or at least greatly reduce the residual damage. Leviathan itself can decide whether or not to implement those suggestions, or to keep on risking our displeasure … Still, all threats aside, surely this is in all of our interests? I can't see that it serves your order to leave a trail of flaws and cracks in space-time. You do realise it was probably through such flaws that the Darkness infiltrated you, and managed to lure Pearce here as well?" she pointed out, and the Priestess could not avoid grimacing in discomfort. _Admittedly, the Configuration is not the most reliable of tools. There would be some advantage in being able to extract our prey without also creating the leftover schisms through which they have been known to escape us … all too often. Embarrassing, and disruptive._ "Anyway, what you do with the knowledge is your own affair. Might I ask what it is you want with the payment?"

"You may not."

"As you wish. It's a gift, isn't it?" asked Sapphire, knowingly.

"Are you prying into my thoughts, alien?" asked the Priestess, her glare narrowing, then she immediately repented of it. _Bravo. That was a confession if ever there was._

"No, merely an intuition. You obviously don't covet it for yourself. You barely even looked at it when you took it from me. Besides, given its nature … A little souvenir for the High Priest? Well, much as I can't approve of the specifics, I suppose that's encouraging in its way."

"Encouraging?"

"Yes, to know that twisted and irredeemable as you all are, you obviously still harbour affections for each other."

"It is expedient. The High Priest is a deeply responsible man. He blames himself entirely for the recent disaster, and his low morale affects us all. If I know him well, though, he may find this particular gift cathartic. 'Affection' has nothing to do with it."

"No, of course not," said Sapphire, with an ironic, insufferable smile, much to the Priestess' fury. _Would that the situation were less critical, then I would flay that smile off her face. No … I know just what I would do with her. The High Priest was right. There is more satisfaction still in seeing a worthy enemy reduced to one's willing and grateful slave._

"You are quite the adversary, Sapphire," she remarked, attempting to sweeten her rasping tone as far as was feasible. "I feel it would be quite something to know you more–"

"Not interested, thank you," cut in Sapphire, and her voice was now the cold, hard one. "In any case, that would be against the rules of the game, as you know very well."

"Not if you were a willing volunteer."

"I can't envision why I ever would be. I do quite well for power and immortality already."

"There is still _pleasure_. I cannot imagine you get much of that in the life you lead, and your partner hardly seems like the type to–"

"You don't know Steel, nor me," Sapphire interrupted, curtly, "and you never will," on which note, she turned on her heel and marched out of the office. The Priestess watched her departure in a resigned mood. _Sometimes, all the torture one can inflict is to touch a raw nerve, and be grateful for it. No matter,_ she thought, glancing towards the desk compartment that now contained the strange, ethereal crystal. _I have what I wanted, and I do believe that the High Priest will find this a most agreeable surprise. A fine opportunity for him to come to terms with his past …_

* * *

 _War Lords' proving ground planet, 1917 zone, British sector, time unknown …_

"This is all just a mockery!" protested the elder of the three humans, and very pompously, thought General Smythe, for such a clownish-looking specimen. "I demand the right to appeal to a higher authority!"

"There is no right of appeal," replied Smythe, contemptuously. "You will be executed at dawn tomorrow. Take him away, Sergeant Major."

As his human troops marched the three 'civilian' prisoners away from their court-martial, Smythe rose from the table and made for his bedroom, his thoughts uncharacteristically troubled. _This can mean nothing of import, surely. Unconditioned specimens are always a pain, of course, but only three of them, and a motley crew at that. No threat at all._ Just that ridiculous-looking so-called 'doctor' with the oversized clothes and the deranged mop of hair, some gormless boy of a Highlander who had clearly blundered across a time zone barrier, and one harmless slip of a girl who had probably been time-scooped entirely by accident. _Which would certainly be an acute embarrassment for our Time Lord ally … then again they could simply be resisters who've broken their conditioning. In that case, they're a problem for the Security Chief rather than the War Chief. Well, they can argue the blame for that between themselves, as per usual. I've done my duty._ For all that, Smythe could not help but feel uneasy. _No, more than uneasy. What is it that my specimens sometimes call that feeling? Deja vu? Ridiculous,_ he thought, self-reproachfully, as he swung open the framed picture that concealed his communications unit and punched in the code to summon a SIDRAT. _Humans are such pathetic and insipid creatures anyway, for all their useful savagery and susceptibility. One specimen is very like another._ That explanation, reasonable as it was, failed to reassure him much, so while he was waiting for the SIDRAT to arrive he distracted himself by thinking over the points he would need to raise at the next conference. _The increasing numbers of conditioning failures, obviously. It's high time control addressed that issue. Also, I need more fresh specimens and I need them quickly. Our recent training exercises have been costly in the extreme, and have left me with all too many maimed and useless specimens. We can't treat their injuries using our own technology, obviously. That would compromise the whole illusion. They'll just have to be 'invalided home.' On that note, perhaps I'd better have a word with the Security Chief to increase the capacity of the euthanasia unit. I'm supposed to be raising an army of superior specimens, not running a hospice for useless alien cripples. If they can't grasp that–_

His train of thought was interrupted by the SIDRAT materialising with its familiar droning, rushing sound, ghostly yet mechanically repetitive, as the tall, black, almost coffin-like space-time ship phased into existence in the corner of the room. When it had solidified, its door automatically slid open with a harsh, scraping sound, almost like knives being sharpened. _But the same noise as ever, so why am I being so stupidly morbid? Pull yourself together, man. Leave such childish imaginings for the specimens._ He steeled himself, and stepped into the SIDRAT. Its transcendentally dimensional interior was the same as all the others; a spacious and pristine white cabin, unfurnished to allow for maximum troop transport capacity, except for a few transparent plastic partitions that hung from the ceiling, gently swinging in the breeze from the open door. This SIDRAT, however, contained only the one troop: a youngish human male in a 1917-era uniform. _Captain insignia,_ though Smythe, inspecting his uniform, while his morbid fears now turned to outrage. _One captain? I tell them I need thousands of reinforcements, and they send me one wretched captain? Or is this the War Chief's idea of a joke? Typical Time Lord arrogance. Then again …_ There was something in the soldier's stare that Smythe did not care for at all: a boldness, verging on insolence, even contempt. _This one surely can't be conditioned. He must be a resistance member, a stowaway. Maybe the fool thinks he can escape the war zones this way, or maybe he hopes to infiltrate central control. Either way, we'll soon put a stop to that._ Smythe drew his revolver and pointed it at the captain, although even this, disturbingly, only intensified his expression of disdain.

"Who are you?" asked Smythe, with as much authority as he could muster. "And what are you doing in here?" the Captain merely continued to stare intently. "Are you a resister, a saboteur? Very well. Don't answer me, then, but you _will_ accompany me to central control for study and reconditioning, unless you'd prefer to die here."

"I think your memory must be playing tricks, sir," the soldier finally answered, his tone a hollow mockery of respect. "How you would bring me there now, or how you would kill me now, I cannot envision. Let me help you to understand. Don't you recall that last day, when the Doctor and the resistance stormed your chateau? _I_ was one of the brainwashed rabble of British troops who were mistakenly attempting to save your life. Thanks to the Time Lord's ingenuity, however, we did not succeed. It's all coming back to you now, is it?"

 _The Doctor … I do remember,_ thought Smythe, with an increasing sense of despair. _The resistance … They crossed the time zone barriers en masse, attacked my HQ. I was calling the War Chief, pleading with him to send me a security detachment. He ordered me to deactivate the area control. I tried … then one of the resisters burst into the room. I shot at him, missed … but he … What's happening to me? What was that?_ he thought, now in utter panic, as he heard the clink of heavy chains from somewhere nearby. Also, the bright interior of the SIDRAT seemed to be slowly darkening around them, and the captain's insolent expression had become positively exultant.

"Quite right, so-called General Smythe: you died," declared the human soldier, pitilessly, "and under normal circumstances, that would have been an end to it. Harvesting alien souls is generally outside our remit. However, in exchange for certain concessions, we have been able to make a special exception in your case … and it is such a pleasure to renew our acquaintance." As he said this, a horrible mutation came over him: his skin became chalk-white and hairless; his khaki uniform became long, black, and savage-looking; hideous piercings and lacerations seemed to sprout like gruesome fungi over his face and torso; and his Sam Browne belt, holster and service revolver were replaced by a primitive but cruel-looking assortment of knives. Smythe's revolver remained, however, and he took advantage of that to empty its chamber into the mutant, but to no avail. The 'captain' merely reacted with a low, resonant, sadistic laugh, then two of the swinging chains which had materialised in place of the transparent plastic hangings came to life, coiling like icy iron tourniquets around his wrists and hauling him into the air. He hung between them, suspended in agony and terror, while the humanoid mutant approached him and looked up, his black eyes full of hunger and hatred. He contemplated his crucified prey in silence for a few moments before speaking again: "Incidentally, alien, this is on behalf of a friend of mine, as well. I hope one day he may even be able to join us. However, while we await that day … time to _play_."

The End.


End file.
